NCIS Fic: Fine is a Four Letter Word - Gen - 27/30
Title: Fine is a Four Letter Word - Chapter 27: Hope
Author: Emeraldsong (originally posted on ff.net as Secretchild)
Rating: T, mainly for language
Genre: Gen, angst, hurt/comfort, friendship, family
Characters: Team fic, but strong focus on Tony/Gibbs father/son relationship and Abby/Tony friendship.
Summary: When Tony collapses while pursuing a suspect, he insists it's just the flu. Things are never that simple.
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.
A/N: I went into this knowing as much about respiratory illness as I do about the NASA space shuttle. I did as much digging as I could, but it's possible that my understanding is still approximately at the level of a reasonably intelligent chipmunk. Please take any obvious errors with a grain of salt.
Everybody's got a hold on hope
It's the last thing
That's holding me.
-Guided by Voices, "Hold on Hope"
"No." Tony's voice, weak though it was, left no doubt that he was serious.
Gibbs suppressed a sigh of frustration. He'd known Tony would respond this way - defenses up at the first hint of what Brad wanted to do. "Tony -" he began, but Tony stopped him.
"I said...no. No way."
"Tony," Brad sat so he could look Tony straight in the eye. "It's not heroic measures. It's not life support."
"Don't...bullshit me!"
"DiNozzo," Gibbs snapped. "It's not what you think. Shut up and hear him out."
"It's a BiPAP - completely non-invasive," Brad said. "No one's going to stick a tube down your throat. All we're doing is giving your lungs some extra support so that they have a chance to heal, and getting you on it now makes it a lot more likely that will happen."
He shook his head. "Had the damn...plague. Didn't...need it then."
"Yes, and you weren't going into the plague with scarred lungs and no immune system, and coming off of a couple months of chemo. Your body is exhausted - you need the rest, you need the oxygen, and you don't need to be struggling to get it."
Tony wanted to believe him. He was so sick he could barely think straight, and from the way the room was starting to swim he knew his fever was up again. All he knew was the very word - ventilator - smacked of desperation, of last resorts. If there was something he was missing, great, but there was no way in hell he was going end up tethered to a machine for... He looked up at Gibbs, mutely pleading with him to understand.
Gibbs did understand. They'd talked about it before - formally, the first time, when Gibbs took over Tony's medical power of attorney. It had come up one time since then, though; one of those things that stayed beneath the surface, out of mind, except for the times during long hours of surveillance when late nights and little sleep had the tendency to loosen tongues. He knew what Tony wanted, even if right now he wished like hell he didn't.
"I won't let that happen, Tony." He spoke firmly, clearly, giving no indication that it was one of the hardest things he'd ever said in his life. But it was all he needed to say; most of the tension drained from Tony's face, and he nodded wearily. No arguing, no double-checking, no "you promise?" Just a nod.
"Good." Brad stood. "Let's set it up."
It only took a short time to get Tony on the BiPAP machine. Fists clenched at his sides, he fought back panic as the mask was placed over his nose and mouth, the fit then carefully checked to make sure the tight seal allowed no air to escape. Gibbs said nothing, just put a hand on his arm, and each time it became too much and he was sure he was smothering, suffocating, he could feel Gibbs' hand grounding him, pulling him back.
Eventually, though, the bliss of not having to fight for air outweighed the stifling discomfort of the mask. His body finally relaxed, Tony fell asleep to the rhythmic hiss-release of the machine.
Boss...I'm trusting you...
Gibbs ventured out of the ICU again around midnight, ostensibly to get more coffee, but mainly to get out of the dim room and move around a bit. Unlike the chair in Tony's room on the oncology floor, the ones in the ICU were not conducive to long stretches of sitting. Gibbs wondered fleetingly if they were designed to be uncomfortable, to cut down on the number of people attempting to overstay their welcome. Whatever it was, the damn thing was hell on his back.
He headed straight through the waiting room to the elevators. The figure curled up on the chair in the corner was lost in shadow, and he would have missed her completely had she not called his name.
"Gibbs?"
He turned. "Abs? I thought you went home hours ago."
"I did. I came back."
"Yeah, I can see that," he said with a faint smile. "Any particular reason?"
She shrugged. "I don't know, I just kept getting this really hinky feeling, like I should be here. I tried to ignore it, but you always say you should go with your gut - I mean, I don't have the famous Gibbs gut or anything, but sometimes I get this kinda squinchy sensation, right around here?" She gestured vaguely to her abdomen. Gibbs wasn't about to ask what 'squinchy' was. "Anyway, I came back." She looked up at him. "Tony's OK, right?"
"He's OK." And he was - it wasn't a lie, although the definition of "OK" seemed to be shifting by the hour.
"Can I see him?"
He paused just a little too long before answering. "He's sleeping, Abs."
It was too late - he'd left the tiniest opening for doubt, and she saw it immediately. "Gibbs, what aren't you telling me?"
He thought quickly. "You can see him, but come downstairs with me for a few minutes first."
"Why?" Her eyes narrowed. "Gibbs, you're freaking me out here. I thought you said he was OK."
"He is." He sighed, realizing that attempting to evade her was not helping matters. Easing into the chair beside her, he wracked his brain for the right words. The original plan had been for Brad to explain it to the team in the morning - Gibbs wasn't about to try to walk through the medical details, at least not without expert backup. But he knew Abby well enough to know she wouldn't take wait for an answer. Especially when it concerned the health of her best friend.
She's a big girl, he told himself. She can handle it. And she could. The trouble was, Gibbs didn't want her to have to handle it. He wanted to take her and put her back in that elevator where she'd hidden from that psycho stalking bastard, and keep her there until all this was over. He wanted, as he always did, to protect her. And he couldn't.
And maybe, he realized, I shouldn't.
She was looking at him warily, but under it lay the utter trust she always displayed in him. It was that trust that made the decision for him. She trusted him to keep her safe, but she also trusted him to tell her the truth. He wouldn't betray either one if he could help it.
"Tony is OK. His breathing was getting worse, so Dr. Pitt put him on a BiPAP machine for a couple of days to try to give his lungs a break."
"A BiPAP. A vent?" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Are you trying to tell me Tony's on a ventilator?"
"Abby, it's only for a few days."
"How do you know that, Gibbs? You can't know that for sure!"
Actually, I can.. He wasn't about to explain that now, and while he tried to figure out what he could say, she hit him with one straight out of left field.
"Gibbs, is Tony dying?"
The words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to ignore, filtering into the ether until everything nearby was permeated with it.
"I don't know, Abs."
It wasn't what he wanted to say. He ached to assure her that Tony would be fine, this was just a setback, just like Dr. Weiss had said, and a couple of days of antibiotics would have him good as new and back down on the oncology floor, flirting with the nurses and bitching about being bored.
Truth, Jethro. Tell her the truth.
So he did. He fixed her with a steady gaze and told her the truth as he knew it.
"What I do know," he said, "is that Tony's stubborn as hell. He's been through things that should have killed him, would have killed most men, and he came out on the other side joking about it. Odds and statistics and all that crap don't seem to mean much when it comes to him." He sighed. "Abs, I don't know what's going to happen. But I do know that if there is a chance in hell of beating this, Tony will be the one to do it."
He meant every word of it, and saying it aloud only convinced him further that he was right. Tony was exhausted; he was scared; he was understandably shaken. Yet Gibbs knew, he knew, that Tony had enough fight in him to get over this last hurdle. They just had to make sure that Tony knew it too.
Abby nodded slowly. She was on the cusp of believing him, but there was something else there. "What is it, Abs?"
"It's just...I've never seen Tony like this. Ever. Even after Hannah Lowell went all Stephen King with her SWAK - I couldn't see Tony until he was out of isolation, and by then, he was so much better. I've never, ever seen him this sick. Not even close."
"I have." The aching memory of blue lights stung at Gibbs, but he kept going. "And he got through it." He reached out, tipped her chin up so she was looking straight at him. "Abs. He got through it."
"Yeah." She nodded slowly. "Can I see him? Just for a few minutes?"
Gibbs hugged her to him. "Yeah. C'mon."
Unlike the rest of the hospital, the ICU was fairly active at night. The lights were dimmed, but enough patients needed close monitoring that nurses were in and out much more often, and the plethora of monitors added a strange, syncopated beeping to the background hum. They reached Tony without being stopped, and Abby stepped into the room.
In here, the beeping of the monitors was supplemented by the rhythmic hiss of the BiPAP. Abby took in the sight - the wires, the leads, the tubes, and finally, the mask, hiding half of Tony's face behind a mass of plastic. For a second, Gibbs thought she was going to freeze right there in the doorway.
"Gibbs, he hates masks. He hates them."
"I know. He'll put up with it. He's OK."
"How do you know? Did he tell you that?"
"Not exactly - he can't talk with the mask. But he got the point across. More or less."
"But he can't talk? Like, at all?"
"No. Not with the mask on." She took a slow, shuddering breath, and at her next words, Gibbs grinned. That's my girl.
"I guess," she said, "I'm just going to have to teach him to sign."
Both doctors, Pitt and Weiss, had been careful to emphasize that finding out the cause of Tony's pneumonia would take time - if it could be determined at all. Between the sheer number of possibilities and the length of time it would take to run the tests, they were best off treating generally and aggressively, and consider being able to target the treatment a bonus. So when Brad came into the waiting room the morning of Tony's second day in the ICU, none of the team was expecting much in the way of new information.
As Abby already knew about the BiPAP machine, Gibbs hadn't seen the point in waiting on Brad to tell the others. At least he had Ducky to answer the more technical questions when he explained the situation to Ziva and McGee. He'd seen the question in their eyes that Abby had asked out loud, and done his best to reassure them, much as he had her. There was only so much he could say, though, and they had hit a lull when Brad slid into a seat alongside the group. "We've got it."
"You've got what?" Brad looked almost as tired as they felt, Gibbs thought, but he also looked oddly…triumphant? Could that be right?
"We've narrowed down the cause of the infection," he said with a weary smile. "Looks like RSV - respiratory syncytial virus."
"RSV?" McGee said. "Isn't that something kids get?"
"A common misconception, Timothy - it can develop at any age, although it usually causes a very mild illness in older individuals. It can be quite severe in children, however. I remember a particularly nasty winter when I was working at a clinic in Dubai -" Ducky caught Gibbs' glare, and stopped short. "Yes, well - as I was saying, it can be severe in children, but also in adults with compromised immune systems."
"Like Tony," Ziva said.
"Exactly. He normally could have fought it off, but without an immune system, and already weakened lungs - hell, he may as well have put out a welcome mat. Bug's an opportunistic little bastard," Brad said, half to himself. "We're lucky, though."
"Lucky? This must be a definition of luck I am not familiar with," Ziva muttered.
"Well, relatively speaking." Brad admitted. "First, it could be identified by rapid antigen assay, so we're not stuck waiting for cultures. Second, he's already on antivirals, but now we can target the treatment - combination of IVIG and aerosolized ribaviran."
"What are you waiting for?" Abby said. "Hook him up!"
"We already have, Abby," Brad said. "Now we just need to hope we caught it in time." None of them had to ask what he meant by that, and none of them wanted to hear it voiced. "We do have one piece of very good news, though. I spoke to Dr. Weiss about an hour ago. Tony's white blood cell count is up to 4.3. As far as the transplant goes, he's doing remarkably well."
It was good news - none of them could deny that. But they also couldn't ignore the fact that the success of the transplant wouldn't mean a damned thing if the infection in Tony's lungs couldn't be controlled.
"Dr. Pitt?" McGee said. He sounded tentative, and he looked around at the others as if he expected them to try to stop him from asking the question. "What...what are his..."
"Chances?" McGee nodded. "I don't look at it that way. There's just too many variables - not the least of which is Tony himself. And let me tell you, he's surprised me before." He stood to leave. "All of you - try to get some rest," he said. "We're treating as aggressively as we can. Other than that, all we can do is wait."
"And hope," Ziva said, so softly that Gibbs couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it.
And so the waiting began. As hours bled into days, the pneumonia continued to ravage Tony's already weakened body. He was asleep more often than not, and when he was awake, he was, as Abby put it, "seriously out of it." News, when it came, was encouraging - or so Gibbs was told. Tony's blood gasses were improving. His viral load was dropping. His white blood cell count was continuing to rise. All good things, to be sure. Yet when he looked at Tony, tossing in restless sleep, the fever still raging, the tests didn't mean a whole lot.
Most of the team came and went. Gibbs aside, they were all still technically on duty, and while Jenny was more than willing to be flexible, they quickly found that working alleviated some of the frustration of the wait. They trickled in and out, popping in for a quick few minutes on the way to the office or over lunch, then spending entire evenings in the waiting room, taking their allotted ten minutes and returning to the vinyl chairs for another hour's wait. Eventually, as the hour grew late, they left, going home to their own beds and their own broken sleep, ready to start the whole thing again in the morning.
Gibbs, though, did not leave. McGee brought him clothes; he showered in a random locker room he'd found; he ate whenever he happened to remember, which wasn't often. And sleep...Gibbs found early on that the ICU was not conducive to sleep. For Gibbs, it wasn't the beeping of the machines that kept him up. Nor was it the constant activity, or the occasional frenzied rush of medical personnel converging on a patient when some monitor somewhere showed something horribly wrong.
For Gibbs, it was the breathing. He knew, between the vent, the monitors, and the nurses, there were more than enough people keeping an eye on Tony's breathing. It didn't matter. He slept in snatches, sometimes for as much as an hour or two before he would wake in a panic, his eyes darting to Tony's chest, his own heart pounding, and it wasn't until he saw the steady rise and fall of the blankets that the rush of adrenaline would begin to ebb.
Another day was fading into night when Ducky finally had enough. "Jethro."
"What?" Gibbs' voice was hoarse with lack of sleep, and he looked up to see Ducky watching him with concern.
"Perhaps," Ducky said carefully, "it's time you took a short break."
"Thanks, Duck, but I'm fine."
"Jethro -"
"I said, I am fine."
Ducky sighed. "May I speak to you for a moment?" Gibbs hesitated. He had a pretty damn good idea of what Ducky wanted to "speak" to him about, and he wasn't interested.
Ducky, though, was clearly not about to drop the issue. After five minutes of trying to pretend he couldn't feel the older man's eyes boring into the back of his head, Gibbs finally got up and stalked wordlessly past him out to the main waiting area. Thankfully, it was deserted. "What is it, Duck?"
"Jethro, when was the last time you went home?"
"I don't know. A couple days ago. Why?"
"It's been five days," Ducky said gently. Five days? That's impossible. But was it? Time seemed to run together in this place, slipping past in a never-ending stream of doctors, vital signs, lab reports, all accompanied by the steady thrum of the hissing ventilator and the word, repeated again and again: Wait.
"OK, five days," Gibbs said, masking his surprise at the realization. "If you knew, why did you ask?"
"Because I didn't think you knew. And I was right."
"Is there a point to this?"
"Jethro, you need to go home. You aren't sleeping, you're living on black coffee - "
"I always live on black coffee."
"Not like this. How do you expect to help Tony if you don't take care of yourself?"
Gibbs tried to hide his frustration. "Look, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine." He made to leave, to go back to Tony's cubicle and his post by the bed, but Ducky's voice stopped him before he'd gone two steps.
"You know, I've been meaning to speak to the nurses about that ten minute visitation rule. It concerns me that they've been somewhat lax in enforcing it - have you noticed that?"
He turned slowly, not sure he was hearing him right. "Are you threatening me, Duck?"
"Do I need to, Jethro?"
Anyone else would have been taking their life into their hands attempting such a thing. As this was Ducky, Gibbs simply fixed him with the look that his team called The Stare. It had broken suspects, whipped wayward agents into line, and cowed men who outranked him a dozen times over. Ducky had seen it many times before, and he wasn't impressed. They stood there for a long moment, in a stalemate.
"Dammit, Duck!"
"Jethro. Go home."
His jaw set, Gibbs yanked his car keys out of his pocket and strode past Ducky. The ME held out his jacket as he passed (and didn't that just add insult to injury?), but he ignored it. Rather than wait for the elevator, he hit the stairwell, and the last thing Ducky heard were his footsteps echoing down the stairs as the door slammed shut.
Something was tickling his ear.
His senses were returning slowly, and he was really only half-awake when he became aware of the annoying sensation at the side of his head. It felt like a feather, or a rush of air. Or maybe a fly. Wasn't there an old lady who swallowed a fly? I think she died. Whatever it was, it was getting on his nerves. He lifted a hand - or rather, he thought about lifting a hand, and then waited patiently while the sluggish synapses in his brain sent the "contract muscle" message to his arm. Evidently these messages were traveling by turtle these days. Eventually, it got the point, and he managed to swat at the source of the tickle.
The tiny yelp woke him the rest of the way. He opened his eyes just in time to see Abby jerk her head up from beside his, hand over her nose. Abs? Oops.He tried to say "Sorry," but the mask over his face reduced it to a barely audible mumble.
As it turned out, Abby didn't seem to mind. She just stared at him, a grin crossing her face. "Tony? Are you awake? Like, really awake?" Not waiting for a reply, she jumped up and ran out to the nurses' station. "I think he's awake," he heard her telling someone.
Oh, yeah. Definitely awake. And now that he was, he kind of wished he wasn't. His head was throbbing, his muscles ached, his chest was on fire, there were tubes places he did not want to think about, and that damned mask was still on his face. He heard the hiss of the ventilator somewhere nearby and stifled a groan. He'd really hoped that part was a dream.
Abby came back, practically dragging the nurse with her. He didn't recognize the nurse, but she smiled when she saw him. "Welcome back, Tony," she said.
Did I go somewhere?
"Tony, you're drenched," Abby said, coming over to his side. "Lydia? Is he OK? He's soaking wet."
"Looks like his fever's broken," the nurse said. She placed a thermometer in his ear (what is it with you people and my ears?) and when it beeped, checked the readout. "Yep. 100.8."
Abby squeaked - literally squeaked - in excitement. Tony could tell she wanted to throw her arms around him, but a) he was surrounded by tubes and wires and God-knew what else, and b) he was sweaty as hell. She settled for grabbing his hand and squeezing it tight as Lydia checked the rest of his vital signs. "OK, Tony," she finally said. "That can't be comfortable. Let's get you cleaned up."
"I'll be back as soon as you're done," Abby said. She gave his hand one last squeeze before disappearing down the hall.
Tony turned his attention back to Lydia, who was pulling a clean gown and sheets from a cart. "This won't take long at all," she said, bringing them over to the bed. He wanted to tell her he could do it himself, but...well, frankly, he couldn't. He'd never really understood the phrase "weak as a kitten" until now. Turned out it was a pretty apt description; even sitting up was far more than he was ready to attempt.
True to her word, ten minutes later Lydia had Tony settled in a fresh gown between soft, clean sheets. It wasn't his Ohio State t-shirt, but it would do, he thought, as Abby came back in. She was toting a pad of paper and a pen, and she presented it to him proudly as she sat down. "It's so you can talk. I mean, sort of talk, since you can't really talk talk. So this is like pseudo-talking. Or - I know it was a long time ago, but remember I taught you a couple of signs? Do you remember any of those?"
He was getting tired just listening to her. Weakly, he lifted a hand and tried to form it into something resembling one of the shapes he remembered.
She winced. "Did I teach you that? Oh. Right. I guess I did. Uh, Tony, don't use that one, at least not unless you're trying to really, really piss someone off. Maybe we should just stick with the paper."
She started to hand him the pad and pen, but he shook his head. He hated to admit it, but just getting changed and resettled had completely exhausted him. Thankfully, she seemed to understand. "Gotcha. Go back to sleep, Tony. I'll be right here." He nodded, already drifting off again.
That was how Gibbs found them when he returned. Both were sleeping, but Tony actually seemed peaceful, a far cry from the agitated, feverish sleep of the past several days. And Abby...
Gibbs smiled, shaking his head. With all of the medical equipment, she couldn't actually get on the bed with Tony. She'd compromised, in true Abby fashion, by pulling the chair up as close to the bed as possible, then tucking her legs underneath her for extra leverage. By shoving herself all the way against the side of the chair, she was able to lean over far enough to rest her head and shoulder on the side of the bed, right next to Tony's head. She looked completely happy, but Gibbs did not even want to consider what her neck - or her legs - would feel like when she woke up.
As he watched, Tony's eyes opened, quickly coming to rest on his boss. For the first time in days, his gaze was lucid, the fever-brightness gone. Even in the dim light, Gibbs could clearly see a faint smile behind the mask.
"About time you woke up," he said. Tony fumbled for something beside him, coming up with a pen and a pad of paper. It took a second, but he managed to scribble something down and held it out to Gibbs.
He took it to see two words, written in a shaky hand:
"She snores."
Author: Emeraldsong (originally posted on ff.net as Secretchild)
Rating: T, mainly for language
Genre: Gen, angst, hurt/comfort, friendship, family
Characters: Team fic, but strong focus on Tony/Gibbs father/son relationship and Abby/Tony friendship.
Summary: When Tony collapses while pursuing a suspect, he insists it's just the flu. Things are never that simple.
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.
A/N: I went into this knowing as much about respiratory illness as I do about the NASA space shuttle. I did as much digging as I could, but it's possible that my understanding is still approximately at the level of a reasonably intelligent chipmunk. Please take any obvious errors with a grain of salt.
Everybody's got a hold on hope
It's the last thing
That's holding me.
-Guided by Voices, "Hold on Hope"
"No." Tony's voice, weak though it was, left no doubt that he was serious.
Gibbs suppressed a sigh of frustration. He'd known Tony would respond this way - defenses up at the first hint of what Brad wanted to do. "Tony -" he began, but Tony stopped him.
"I said...no. No way."
"Tony," Brad sat so he could look Tony straight in the eye. "It's not heroic measures. It's not life support."
"Don't...bullshit me!"
"DiNozzo," Gibbs snapped. "It's not what you think. Shut up and hear him out."
"It's a BiPAP - completely non-invasive," Brad said. "No one's going to stick a tube down your throat. All we're doing is giving your lungs some extra support so that they have a chance to heal, and getting you on it now makes it a lot more likely that will happen."
He shook his head. "Had the damn...plague. Didn't...need it then."
"Yes, and you weren't going into the plague with scarred lungs and no immune system, and coming off of a couple months of chemo. Your body is exhausted - you need the rest, you need the oxygen, and you don't need to be struggling to get it."
Tony wanted to believe him. He was so sick he could barely think straight, and from the way the room was starting to swim he knew his fever was up again. All he knew was the very word - ventilator - smacked of desperation, of last resorts. If there was something he was missing, great, but there was no way in hell he was going end up tethered to a machine for... He looked up at Gibbs, mutely pleading with him to understand.
Gibbs did understand. They'd talked about it before - formally, the first time, when Gibbs took over Tony's medical power of attorney. It had come up one time since then, though; one of those things that stayed beneath the surface, out of mind, except for the times during long hours of surveillance when late nights and little sleep had the tendency to loosen tongues. He knew what Tony wanted, even if right now he wished like hell he didn't.
"I won't let that happen, Tony." He spoke firmly, clearly, giving no indication that it was one of the hardest things he'd ever said in his life. But it was all he needed to say; most of the tension drained from Tony's face, and he nodded wearily. No arguing, no double-checking, no "you promise?" Just a nod.
"Good." Brad stood. "Let's set it up."
It only took a short time to get Tony on the BiPAP machine. Fists clenched at his sides, he fought back panic as the mask was placed over his nose and mouth, the fit then carefully checked to make sure the tight seal allowed no air to escape. Gibbs said nothing, just put a hand on his arm, and each time it became too much and he was sure he was smothering, suffocating, he could feel Gibbs' hand grounding him, pulling him back.
Eventually, though, the bliss of not having to fight for air outweighed the stifling discomfort of the mask. His body finally relaxed, Tony fell asleep to the rhythmic hiss-release of the machine.
Boss...I'm trusting you...
Gibbs ventured out of the ICU again around midnight, ostensibly to get more coffee, but mainly to get out of the dim room and move around a bit. Unlike the chair in Tony's room on the oncology floor, the ones in the ICU were not conducive to long stretches of sitting. Gibbs wondered fleetingly if they were designed to be uncomfortable, to cut down on the number of people attempting to overstay their welcome. Whatever it was, the damn thing was hell on his back.
He headed straight through the waiting room to the elevators. The figure curled up on the chair in the corner was lost in shadow, and he would have missed her completely had she not called his name.
"Gibbs?"
He turned. "Abs? I thought you went home hours ago."
"I did. I came back."
"Yeah, I can see that," he said with a faint smile. "Any particular reason?"
She shrugged. "I don't know, I just kept getting this really hinky feeling, like I should be here. I tried to ignore it, but you always say you should go with your gut - I mean, I don't have the famous Gibbs gut or anything, but sometimes I get this kinda squinchy sensation, right around here?" She gestured vaguely to her abdomen. Gibbs wasn't about to ask what 'squinchy' was. "Anyway, I came back." She looked up at him. "Tony's OK, right?"
"He's OK." And he was - it wasn't a lie, although the definition of "OK" seemed to be shifting by the hour.
"Can I see him?"
He paused just a little too long before answering. "He's sleeping, Abs."
It was too late - he'd left the tiniest opening for doubt, and she saw it immediately. "Gibbs, what aren't you telling me?"
He thought quickly. "You can see him, but come downstairs with me for a few minutes first."
"Why?" Her eyes narrowed. "Gibbs, you're freaking me out here. I thought you said he was OK."
"He is." He sighed, realizing that attempting to evade her was not helping matters. Easing into the chair beside her, he wracked his brain for the right words. The original plan had been for Brad to explain it to the team in the morning - Gibbs wasn't about to try to walk through the medical details, at least not without expert backup. But he knew Abby well enough to know she wouldn't take wait for an answer. Especially when it concerned the health of her best friend.
She's a big girl, he told himself. She can handle it. And she could. The trouble was, Gibbs didn't want her to have to handle it. He wanted to take her and put her back in that elevator where she'd hidden from that psycho stalking bastard, and keep her there until all this was over. He wanted, as he always did, to protect her. And he couldn't.
And maybe, he realized, I shouldn't.
She was looking at him warily, but under it lay the utter trust she always displayed in him. It was that trust that made the decision for him. She trusted him to keep her safe, but she also trusted him to tell her the truth. He wouldn't betray either one if he could help it.
"Tony is OK. His breathing was getting worse, so Dr. Pitt put him on a BiPAP machine for a couple of days to try to give his lungs a break."
"A BiPAP. A vent?" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Are you trying to tell me Tony's on a ventilator?"
"Abby, it's only for a few days."
"How do you know that, Gibbs? You can't know that for sure!"
Actually, I can.. He wasn't about to explain that now, and while he tried to figure out what he could say, she hit him with one straight out of left field.
"Gibbs, is Tony dying?"
The words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to ignore, filtering into the ether until everything nearby was permeated with it.
"I don't know, Abs."
It wasn't what he wanted to say. He ached to assure her that Tony would be fine, this was just a setback, just like Dr. Weiss had said, and a couple of days of antibiotics would have him good as new and back down on the oncology floor, flirting with the nurses and bitching about being bored.
Truth, Jethro. Tell her the truth.
So he did. He fixed her with a steady gaze and told her the truth as he knew it.
"What I do know," he said, "is that Tony's stubborn as hell. He's been through things that should have killed him, would have killed most men, and he came out on the other side joking about it. Odds and statistics and all that crap don't seem to mean much when it comes to him." He sighed. "Abs, I don't know what's going to happen. But I do know that if there is a chance in hell of beating this, Tony will be the one to do it."
He meant every word of it, and saying it aloud only convinced him further that he was right. Tony was exhausted; he was scared; he was understandably shaken. Yet Gibbs knew, he knew, that Tony had enough fight in him to get over this last hurdle. They just had to make sure that Tony knew it too.
Abby nodded slowly. She was on the cusp of believing him, but there was something else there. "What is it, Abs?"
"It's just...I've never seen Tony like this. Ever. Even after Hannah Lowell went all Stephen King with her SWAK - I couldn't see Tony until he was out of isolation, and by then, he was so much better. I've never, ever seen him this sick. Not even close."
"I have." The aching memory of blue lights stung at Gibbs, but he kept going. "And he got through it." He reached out, tipped her chin up so she was looking straight at him. "Abs. He got through it."
"Yeah." She nodded slowly. "Can I see him? Just for a few minutes?"
Gibbs hugged her to him. "Yeah. C'mon."
Unlike the rest of the hospital, the ICU was fairly active at night. The lights were dimmed, but enough patients needed close monitoring that nurses were in and out much more often, and the plethora of monitors added a strange, syncopated beeping to the background hum. They reached Tony without being stopped, and Abby stepped into the room.
In here, the beeping of the monitors was supplemented by the rhythmic hiss of the BiPAP. Abby took in the sight - the wires, the leads, the tubes, and finally, the mask, hiding half of Tony's face behind a mass of plastic. For a second, Gibbs thought she was going to freeze right there in the doorway.
"Gibbs, he hates masks. He hates them."
"I know. He'll put up with it. He's OK."
"How do you know? Did he tell you that?"
"Not exactly - he can't talk with the mask. But he got the point across. More or less."
"But he can't talk? Like, at all?"
"No. Not with the mask on." She took a slow, shuddering breath, and at her next words, Gibbs grinned. That's my girl.
"I guess," she said, "I'm just going to have to teach him to sign."
Both doctors, Pitt and Weiss, had been careful to emphasize that finding out the cause of Tony's pneumonia would take time - if it could be determined at all. Between the sheer number of possibilities and the length of time it would take to run the tests, they were best off treating generally and aggressively, and consider being able to target the treatment a bonus. So when Brad came into the waiting room the morning of Tony's second day in the ICU, none of the team was expecting much in the way of new information.
As Abby already knew about the BiPAP machine, Gibbs hadn't seen the point in waiting on Brad to tell the others. At least he had Ducky to answer the more technical questions when he explained the situation to Ziva and McGee. He'd seen the question in their eyes that Abby had asked out loud, and done his best to reassure them, much as he had her. There was only so much he could say, though, and they had hit a lull when Brad slid into a seat alongside the group. "We've got it."
"You've got what?" Brad looked almost as tired as they felt, Gibbs thought, but he also looked oddly…triumphant? Could that be right?
"We've narrowed down the cause of the infection," he said with a weary smile. "Looks like RSV - respiratory syncytial virus."
"RSV?" McGee said. "Isn't that something kids get?"
"A common misconception, Timothy - it can develop at any age, although it usually causes a very mild illness in older individuals. It can be quite severe in children, however. I remember a particularly nasty winter when I was working at a clinic in Dubai -" Ducky caught Gibbs' glare, and stopped short. "Yes, well - as I was saying, it can be severe in children, but also in adults with compromised immune systems."
"Like Tony," Ziva said.
"Exactly. He normally could have fought it off, but without an immune system, and already weakened lungs - hell, he may as well have put out a welcome mat. Bug's an opportunistic little bastard," Brad said, half to himself. "We're lucky, though."
"Lucky? This must be a definition of luck I am not familiar with," Ziva muttered.
"Well, relatively speaking." Brad admitted. "First, it could be identified by rapid antigen assay, so we're not stuck waiting for cultures. Second, he's already on antivirals, but now we can target the treatment - combination of IVIG and aerosolized ribaviran."
"What are you waiting for?" Abby said. "Hook him up!"
"We already have, Abby," Brad said. "Now we just need to hope we caught it in time." None of them had to ask what he meant by that, and none of them wanted to hear it voiced. "We do have one piece of very good news, though. I spoke to Dr. Weiss about an hour ago. Tony's white blood cell count is up to 4.3. As far as the transplant goes, he's doing remarkably well."
It was good news - none of them could deny that. But they also couldn't ignore the fact that the success of the transplant wouldn't mean a damned thing if the infection in Tony's lungs couldn't be controlled.
"Dr. Pitt?" McGee said. He sounded tentative, and he looked around at the others as if he expected them to try to stop him from asking the question. "What...what are his..."
"Chances?" McGee nodded. "I don't look at it that way. There's just too many variables - not the least of which is Tony himself. And let me tell you, he's surprised me before." He stood to leave. "All of you - try to get some rest," he said. "We're treating as aggressively as we can. Other than that, all we can do is wait."
"And hope," Ziva said, so softly that Gibbs couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it.
And so the waiting began. As hours bled into days, the pneumonia continued to ravage Tony's already weakened body. He was asleep more often than not, and when he was awake, he was, as Abby put it, "seriously out of it." News, when it came, was encouraging - or so Gibbs was told. Tony's blood gasses were improving. His viral load was dropping. His white blood cell count was continuing to rise. All good things, to be sure. Yet when he looked at Tony, tossing in restless sleep, the fever still raging, the tests didn't mean a whole lot.
Most of the team came and went. Gibbs aside, they were all still technically on duty, and while Jenny was more than willing to be flexible, they quickly found that working alleviated some of the frustration of the wait. They trickled in and out, popping in for a quick few minutes on the way to the office or over lunch, then spending entire evenings in the waiting room, taking their allotted ten minutes and returning to the vinyl chairs for another hour's wait. Eventually, as the hour grew late, they left, going home to their own beds and their own broken sleep, ready to start the whole thing again in the morning.
Gibbs, though, did not leave. McGee brought him clothes; he showered in a random locker room he'd found; he ate whenever he happened to remember, which wasn't often. And sleep...Gibbs found early on that the ICU was not conducive to sleep. For Gibbs, it wasn't the beeping of the machines that kept him up. Nor was it the constant activity, or the occasional frenzied rush of medical personnel converging on a patient when some monitor somewhere showed something horribly wrong.
For Gibbs, it was the breathing. He knew, between the vent, the monitors, and the nurses, there were more than enough people keeping an eye on Tony's breathing. It didn't matter. He slept in snatches, sometimes for as much as an hour or two before he would wake in a panic, his eyes darting to Tony's chest, his own heart pounding, and it wasn't until he saw the steady rise and fall of the blankets that the rush of adrenaline would begin to ebb.
Another day was fading into night when Ducky finally had enough. "Jethro."
"What?" Gibbs' voice was hoarse with lack of sleep, and he looked up to see Ducky watching him with concern.
"Perhaps," Ducky said carefully, "it's time you took a short break."
"Thanks, Duck, but I'm fine."
"Jethro -"
"I said, I am fine."
Ducky sighed. "May I speak to you for a moment?" Gibbs hesitated. He had a pretty damn good idea of what Ducky wanted to "speak" to him about, and he wasn't interested.
Ducky, though, was clearly not about to drop the issue. After five minutes of trying to pretend he couldn't feel the older man's eyes boring into the back of his head, Gibbs finally got up and stalked wordlessly past him out to the main waiting area. Thankfully, it was deserted. "What is it, Duck?"
"Jethro, when was the last time you went home?"
"I don't know. A couple days ago. Why?"
"It's been five days," Ducky said gently. Five days? That's impossible. But was it? Time seemed to run together in this place, slipping past in a never-ending stream of doctors, vital signs, lab reports, all accompanied by the steady thrum of the hissing ventilator and the word, repeated again and again: Wait.
"OK, five days," Gibbs said, masking his surprise at the realization. "If you knew, why did you ask?"
"Because I didn't think you knew. And I was right."
"Is there a point to this?"
"Jethro, you need to go home. You aren't sleeping, you're living on black coffee - "
"I always live on black coffee."
"Not like this. How do you expect to help Tony if you don't take care of yourself?"
Gibbs tried to hide his frustration. "Look, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine." He made to leave, to go back to Tony's cubicle and his post by the bed, but Ducky's voice stopped him before he'd gone two steps.
"You know, I've been meaning to speak to the nurses about that ten minute visitation rule. It concerns me that they've been somewhat lax in enforcing it - have you noticed that?"
He turned slowly, not sure he was hearing him right. "Are you threatening me, Duck?"
"Do I need to, Jethro?"
Anyone else would have been taking their life into their hands attempting such a thing. As this was Ducky, Gibbs simply fixed him with the look that his team called The Stare. It had broken suspects, whipped wayward agents into line, and cowed men who outranked him a dozen times over. Ducky had seen it many times before, and he wasn't impressed. They stood there for a long moment, in a stalemate.
"Dammit, Duck!"
"Jethro. Go home."
His jaw set, Gibbs yanked his car keys out of his pocket and strode past Ducky. The ME held out his jacket as he passed (and didn't that just add insult to injury?), but he ignored it. Rather than wait for the elevator, he hit the stairwell, and the last thing Ducky heard were his footsteps echoing down the stairs as the door slammed shut.
Something was tickling his ear.
His senses were returning slowly, and he was really only half-awake when he became aware of the annoying sensation at the side of his head. It felt like a feather, or a rush of air. Or maybe a fly. Wasn't there an old lady who swallowed a fly? I think she died. Whatever it was, it was getting on his nerves. He lifted a hand - or rather, he thought about lifting a hand, and then waited patiently while the sluggish synapses in his brain sent the "contract muscle" message to his arm. Evidently these messages were traveling by turtle these days. Eventually, it got the point, and he managed to swat at the source of the tickle.
The tiny yelp woke him the rest of the way. He opened his eyes just in time to see Abby jerk her head up from beside his, hand over her nose. Abs? Oops.He tried to say "Sorry," but the mask over his face reduced it to a barely audible mumble.
As it turned out, Abby didn't seem to mind. She just stared at him, a grin crossing her face. "Tony? Are you awake? Like, really awake?" Not waiting for a reply, she jumped up and ran out to the nurses' station. "I think he's awake," he heard her telling someone.
Oh, yeah. Definitely awake. And now that he was, he kind of wished he wasn't. His head was throbbing, his muscles ached, his chest was on fire, there were tubes places he did not want to think about, and that damned mask was still on his face. He heard the hiss of the ventilator somewhere nearby and stifled a groan. He'd really hoped that part was a dream.
Abby came back, practically dragging the nurse with her. He didn't recognize the nurse, but she smiled when she saw him. "Welcome back, Tony," she said.
Did I go somewhere?
"Tony, you're drenched," Abby said, coming over to his side. "Lydia? Is he OK? He's soaking wet."
"Looks like his fever's broken," the nurse said. She placed a thermometer in his ear (what is it with you people and my ears?) and when it beeped, checked the readout. "Yep. 100.8."
Abby squeaked - literally squeaked - in excitement. Tony could tell she wanted to throw her arms around him, but a) he was surrounded by tubes and wires and God-knew what else, and b) he was sweaty as hell. She settled for grabbing his hand and squeezing it tight as Lydia checked the rest of his vital signs. "OK, Tony," she finally said. "That can't be comfortable. Let's get you cleaned up."
"I'll be back as soon as you're done," Abby said. She gave his hand one last squeeze before disappearing down the hall.
Tony turned his attention back to Lydia, who was pulling a clean gown and sheets from a cart. "This won't take long at all," she said, bringing them over to the bed. He wanted to tell her he could do it himself, but...well, frankly, he couldn't. He'd never really understood the phrase "weak as a kitten" until now. Turned out it was a pretty apt description; even sitting up was far more than he was ready to attempt.
True to her word, ten minutes later Lydia had Tony settled in a fresh gown between soft, clean sheets. It wasn't his Ohio State t-shirt, but it would do, he thought, as Abby came back in. She was toting a pad of paper and a pen, and she presented it to him proudly as she sat down. "It's so you can talk. I mean, sort of talk, since you can't really talk talk. So this is like pseudo-talking. Or - I know it was a long time ago, but remember I taught you a couple of signs? Do you remember any of those?"
He was getting tired just listening to her. Weakly, he lifted a hand and tried to form it into something resembling one of the shapes he remembered.
She winced. "Did I teach you that? Oh. Right. I guess I did. Uh, Tony, don't use that one, at least not unless you're trying to really, really piss someone off. Maybe we should just stick with the paper."
She started to hand him the pad and pen, but he shook his head. He hated to admit it, but just getting changed and resettled had completely exhausted him. Thankfully, she seemed to understand. "Gotcha. Go back to sleep, Tony. I'll be right here." He nodded, already drifting off again.
That was how Gibbs found them when he returned. Both were sleeping, but Tony actually seemed peaceful, a far cry from the agitated, feverish sleep of the past several days. And Abby...
Gibbs smiled, shaking his head. With all of the medical equipment, she couldn't actually get on the bed with Tony. She'd compromised, in true Abby fashion, by pulling the chair up as close to the bed as possible, then tucking her legs underneath her for extra leverage. By shoving herself all the way against the side of the chair, she was able to lean over far enough to rest her head and shoulder on the side of the bed, right next to Tony's head. She looked completely happy, but Gibbs did not even want to consider what her neck - or her legs - would feel like when she woke up.
As he watched, Tony's eyes opened, quickly coming to rest on his boss. For the first time in days, his gaze was lucid, the fever-brightness gone. Even in the dim light, Gibbs could clearly see a faint smile behind the mask.
"About time you woke up," he said. Tony fumbled for something beside him, coming up with a pen and a pad of paper. It took a second, but he managed to scribble something down and held it out to Gibbs.
He took it to see two words, written in a shaky hand:
"She snores."