A/N: I think this is a one-shot, but I don't do short well. One thing always seems to lead to another. I really appreciate that I can write here and no one laughs at me. So, thanks. Maybe it's silly but it's mine. Thanks for reading. Sqs. 3/30/14

Tony approaches from one side and Gibbs the other, carefully, both on full alert, both with guns drawn. They are in a small preserve, mostly woods, but unusually containing cave formations and a gorge with a drop of over 100 feet. Because both the caves and the precipitous drop to the gorge are dangerous attractors, both are carefully fenced off and signed. There should be no way for the location to bite them in the ass and yet, when things go to hell in a handbasket, that is just what happens.

The area had been quietly evacuated and while Gibbs' team is lead, there are two other teams there for support to bring in the two suspects and to process any additional crime scenes discovered. Agents are spread out over the area leading up to the most picturesque scenic overlook of the gorge, and despite the susurration of the river below, both men know that they are only a shout away from the cavalry rushing in, should they need help.

Gibbs doesn't get a chance to shout, however, when a third person appears behind him to cock a pistol in the back of his neck as he sneaks forward toward the two people he had previously thought were solely responsible for engineering the killings. Tony is too far into the clearing to duck out of sight when he sees Gibbs freeze, so instead, he acts. He is on the closest man even as Gibbs moves and strikes his assailant. The third suspect comes to the aid of the man Tony is struggling with and so it is that, while Tony manages to knock out one of his attackers, the other is now dragging him bodily toward the scenic precipice.

Tony is dazed from several staggering blows to the head and blood is streaming into his left eye from a deep gash on one side of his forehead, high. He has just enough time to think that it is no consolation that he is going to die in a beautiful place, and to hear Gibbs' shout, before his boots are scrabbling for purchase several feet beyond the end of the wooden fence. His assailant, an enormous man named Willow Corner who Gibbs suspects played the role of abductor and rapist, not killer, is slowly but surely forcing Tony's head backward. Tony's perch on the edge of the gorge isn't deep or stable enough to compensate for the backward bowing of his body and he would have flipped right off had his foot not slipped. He drops instead.

Tony doesn't feel his fingernails ripping as he tries to cling to the soft dirt at the edge of the cliff, seeking any kind of anchor. He doesn't hear voices calling and feet pounding. He doesn't even notice that Willow isn't helping him the last few inches to his death, isn't even present anymore. He does feel the sweat and blood in his eyes and his shoulders burn with the effort to hold on; his lungs gasp for air and his mouth tastes of dirt and the peppermint that grows somewhere nearby. All his consciousness focuses on internal metrics, not external ones. His breath, what he tastes, his shaking arms and hands and even his elbows burn. Elbows? He would have laughed if he had breath. He is angry, truly pissed, that he is going to die in a fall. A fucking fall.

His fingers slip further. Tony concentrates on breathing and holding on. Gibbs will come. Gibbs will come if he can just hold on.

Despite the stinging in his eyes, the little slice of the world in front of Tony is suddenly vibrant and precious. The wavy blur of grass a few feet away, the glint of mica in dirt just inches from his nose, the sun winking off of something metallic nearby, the strong hand wrapped around his wrist.

Jesus. Gibbs has him. His eyes shoot to Gibbs'. But he is still slipping. Why is he still slipping? Panic galvanizes him, pulls him out of his stupor, and he swings his now dangling left arm up to wrap around Gibbs' other wrist in return. He can see Gibbs' lips forming words. Tony can't hear them over the roaring in his ears but he knows what they are. Hold on, Tony. Hold on. Hang on. Don't let go. I got you.

But Gibbs doesn't have him, is slipping himself, has nothing to brace himself on and in fact is probably really saying something like: "I need some help over here! Now!" And even as Tony watches, Gibbs, in a bid to gain better leverage, flings himself to the side, trying to catch an edge of the fence, but Tony could have told him that it was too far away and now Gibbs is on his stomach and sliding forward even as Tony drops another six inches or so straight down. Tony can't see what Gibbs found for purchase, but he found something, a tree root or rock or something because for a few beautiful seconds the dreadful slide stops, and the two men's eyes meet again. Blue on green. Gibbs's face is red and dirty and his teeth are clenched. But Tony doesn't look at that. Just his eyes.

Tony already knows he cares for Gibbs so there is so big revelation here, just one last chance to silently communicate with the man who means so much to him, who has done so much for him. He doesn't try to speak, doesn't even think about it really, just knows that Gibbs will have to let go soon, or fall himself, and even as he thinks it he realizes his hand doesn't seem quite so firmly held and he braces himself for Gibbs' unwilling release.

He doesn't take his eyes off Gibbs though and so he sees the moment that Gibbs' eyes settle. Determined. The same way they always settle when his course is set, Gibbs' own internal compass and navigation system identifying the final coordinates and fuck anyone who gets in his way. Tony's heart stops, he would swear it actually stopped. Christ, no, not Gibbs, no, you are not coming with me no—

And now, Tony is desperate to tell him that, but it is too late to speak and he feels the momentum shift as Gibbs pushes himself forward, lunges really, toward Tony and they will both fall. They are going to fall together. Oh Gibbs, no no no no.

But they don't. Not yet. Tony would have liked to shut his eyes, not been a part of Gibbs' death, his own death, but he can't, not while Gibbs' blue eyes are locked on his. And so he sees bits of every painful minute of their rescue in his peripheral vision. McGee and Balboa have a hold of Gibbs' legs and before he is even all the way back on the lawn, others are hauling on Tony's arms.

And then Tony is up and standing, but only for an instant before he sinks back to the ground. Agents cluster around him, the voices loud and indistinct both. Their concern is clear though, and McGee is plucking at his shoulder, trying to get Tony to stand, to get him over to the medical truck.

Tony manages to rasp out, "'S okay, Tim," McGee's squawking gets more insistent at Tony's use of his name and Tony tries again, raising his voice sharply, "McNanny! I'm okay. I'm okay. Just don't want to be high up right now. Just leave me here on the ground for a few minutes okay?" Tony lets his head drop between his arms, trying to breathe, feeling the sharp pain on his head, the duller but more worrisome throbbing inside. Trying to breathe, though, that came first. Why won't the air stay, stay...a sudden thought intrudes and his head snaps up only to spin with a terrible vertigo—

"Where's Gibbs? Where's Gibbs?" Desire to stay on the ground forgotten, almost hysterical all of a sudden, Tony rolls over onto his hands and knees, scrabbles at the ground and tries to get up, to get to Gibbs.

Now, infuriatingly and in contrast to just ten fucking seconds ago, the hands are trying to hold him down. McGee, at least, seems to have gotten the message. He sinks to the ground next to Tony and shushes the others so Tony can concentrate on him. "Tony. Gibbs is alright. He's alright, okay?" McGee reaches out to hold Tony's shoulders, shake a little. "Just sit down for for a minute would you? The guy he was fighting had a knife and Gibbs is getting stitched up. He's fine though. Snapping at everyone and trying to refuse medical attention. Normal." Tony squints and can finally focus on McGee's face, see the tentative smile.

As if he had a choice—he is pretty sure his legs won't hold him—Tony decides to follow McGee's advice for a minute. He sits on the blessed ground, arms around his knees, head between them trying to draw air into his lungs. How's that working out for ya, Tony Boy? Tony Boy, Pony Boy. 1983 movie based on a book with Howell, Ralph Macchio, Matt Dillon, and Patrick Swayze, directed by Frances Ford Coppola. Also notable for being the first time he got to second base with Alyssa Milne, in the back seat of his friend Chris' Dodge Dart. Tony Boy, Pony Boy. Gibbs.

Gibbs.

Despite the free association and reassuring repetition of familiar movies and actors, Tony's breaths stay short and labored. Bright dots like fireflies swim and his head feels light and almost disconnected from the rest of his body. He can hear McGee talking to him, trying to reassure him even as he starts to shake. He hears McGee calling for help, hears an unmistakable bellow of command and rage, feels himself starting to slump as he passes out but lasts just long enough to register that familiar arms catch him instead of the hard-packed dirt of the lookout.

LJG&TD

What he knows is only a few minutes later, Tony rouses, eyes snapping open to find Gibbs' face hovering above him, blocking the sun.

"Help me up." Tony didn't recognize the hoarse rasp of his own voice.

"Tony, just stay down a minute, okay?" The look in the blue eyes is familiar, but it doesn't mean what he thought it did. Everything is different now.

"Help me up." Tony gathers strength into shaky limbs and without any concern for how he looks, for his weak and shaky limbs, he flips himself over like a turtle, crawls off Gibbs' lap and away, clumsy and frantic over to the nearest set of legs, gripping cloth and the handholds of knees and pockets until he stands propped against Balboa.

"Tony…" Tony rests his forehead against his colleague's shoulder for four full breaths and then straightens, removing fingers one at a time from Balboa's shoulder. He stands facing Gibbs, whose hands are outstretched as if to catch Tony even though he is too far away now. Tony looks up to lock gazes with Gibbs, his body still swaying a little. Later, Tony would remember the warm breeze, the persistent smell of mint, the sound of distant traffic, voices.

"You bastard."

"Tony."

"No!" Tony's shout turns into a scream. "Noooooooo!"

The people moving around stop. McGee's mouth opens in surprise.

"What did you think you were you doing?! You fucking bastard!" Tony screams and screams again, feels like he is never going to stop. He has to stop. "Not you! Not YOU!"

The fact that the other man is alive and standing in shock not four feet away is confusing and improbably infuriating. Before anyone can stop him, Tony rushes Gibbs, crashing into him and sending both of them flying into other people.

The fight doesn't last long and isn't one of Tony's most impressive showings. Gibbs is mostly trying to stop Tony from hurting himself, and Tony is fighting like a wounded animal, slapping and punching and kicking any part of Gibbs he can get near. The anger is a warm tide rising over the cold blue depths of fear.

As rough hands pull him off of an unresisting Gibbs, he catches the older man's eyes—please, no, don't let them—and finally Tony sees some of his own anguish on the other man's face, sees—

Tony rouses on the way to the hospital. He is in the back of a station wagon and his first thoughts are nostalgic ones, of his childhood. He doesn't have many of those, and this is a new one, a memory he had forgotten. Seat belts weren't ubiquitous back in the 70's and 80's. And it turns out, he had obviously spent many happy hours, unbuckled—he even remembers turning around in the seat to laugh and play games with kids in the way back—in an old station wagon, probably the best that Ginevra could afford on a housekeeper's salary, with fake wood-paneling, backseat windows that didn't roll down, the best AM radio that money could buy.

It even smells the same as this car, he thinks muzzily. Sort of plasticky and...hot. He closes his mouth and swallows with difficulty. His tongue and lips are dry. He brings his hand to his face, rubbing his eye, which is itchy and hot.

A cooler hand, firm but not ungentle, pulls his hand away from his face. "Don't do that, DiNozzo. There was poison ivy in the area."

Memory comes flooding back so quickly Tony almost moans. As it is, he can't help but turn his face down, pressing into the warm cushion of...a leg? Someone's body? His blood runs cold when he realizes whose body it must be.

Before he can die of embarrassment though, he feels the weight of Gibbs' hand return to his shoulder. Return? Gibbs doesn't rub little circles into his shoulder, doesn't press or comfort in any obvious way, but the weight of that hand, the warmth—even though it had seemed cool compared to his own moments ago—seeping through his shirt and coat, makes him feel grounded and...well, cherished. Tony winced inwardly. Cherished? Ridiculous. But he also knows how important his boss' good opinion is. He doesn't move.

"Breathe, DiNozzo." The gruff command drifts down from above.

Tony realizes he is holding his breath. Embarrassment isn't enough to prevent him from being glad for Gibbs strong leg beneath his cheek.

"What...what happened, boss?" Tony can hear people talking from the front of the car. "Who is driving? Who's car is this?" His voice is hoarse and slow, but he seems to understand their situation.

The voices prattle on, unaware, while Gibbs answers him. "The ambulance took the perps away. They are hurt worse than we are. You probably have a hell of a concussion and they stitched me up at the scene. We were okay to travel by car so we hitched a ride with some of the techs on site. We are almost there, probably another ten minutes."

"Are they speaking...Spanish? Doesn't sound right. Is my concussion bad do you think?" Tony raises a hand to his face again. Gibbs pushes it back down again, leaves his own hand where it is, covering Tony's, to keep it in place. Tony's consciousness has shrunk to the hand on top of his.

"Portuguese, I think."

"Ah." Tony says knowingly, although he doesn't know a word of Portuguese. Tony lets the rumble of the engine, the bird-like chatter of the voices in conversation, the minute rocking of his head against Gibbs' thigh, become his world. "Boss?" His voice sounds thin even to his ears.

"Yeah, Tony?" Tony. Not DiNozzo. Tony lets his eyes shut again. Gibbs voice comes again, closer, where the man was leaning forward, "Tony? You need something?"

Tony remembers suddenly, tries to sit up. Gibbs presses him down again. "C'mon, Tony. Stay still. If you sit up, you are not going to feel good."

Even that much movement makes his head swim and his stomach revolt. Tony subsides with a groan, swallowing and trying to keep from throwing up. Gibbs' hand resumes its place on his shoulder, squeezing briefly. Again, Tony's world shrinks, a pulse of pleasure and warmth suffusing his body.

"Boss?"

A sigh from Gibbs. Why was he sighing? "Did you almost...did I almost...did we…" Tony reaches his hand up again, this time to touch Gibbs' hand...which holds his suddenly. Curls firmly around his own.

LJG&TD

Tony feels like shit. Smells the hospital smell, feels the hospital bed underneath him. He resists the pull of consciousness, tries to stay warm and safe and under but he has to pee and his stomach hurts and his...shoulders too? And his head hurts but that is more familiar. He is the King of Concussions. But his chest aches. Something bad has happened and his chest aches. Before he risks opening his eyes, he lets his hand crawl up slowly to press the tips of his fingers hard as he can—not very—into his breastbone, over his heart. Shit. Did someone kick him there? Punch him?

He hears something small, someone shifting or breathing. He doesn't hear it repeated though. The pain in his chest gets more acute, heat like a rash spreading across his chest and up up until there is a knot of pain at the base of his throat getting ready to choke him.

He slits his eyes open cautiously. His instincts are telling him he is in danger and his ears are telling him someone is in the room. Two things that might be related.

Without opening his eyes fully and blinking them clear, he has to rely on the blurry slice of the world he can discern.

There is no mistaking the dark blob by the window though. Gibbs.

Where there should be relief, a sense of safety and anticipation—interesting things always happen around Gibbs, he likes who he is around Gibbs—the pain in his chest intensifies. Despite trying to clamp it down, a small sound escapes him. The dark blob shifts, gets bigger.

Gibbs is standing by the bed now, and Tony wants to crawl away from him—what had Gibbs done? —tries to shift away, manages to get his hand down against the bed as a lever and scoots a little further away. "Go away," he mumbles. The words are garbled but Gibbs knows him better than anyone, knows what he is trying to say.

"Tony. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Already did." He doesn't know why, is trying hard not to remember, has to pee still. "I have to go to the head."

Gibbs moves toward him and Tony's eyes open wide and he flings up a hand, palm out, a flash of white bandages on his fingers and then he is wincing and grunting in pain but still warning Gibbs away. His vision is blurry but he can see that Gibbs has frozen where he stands.

Tony sees a way.

"Just give me a little privacy would ya? I have to...I have to go to the bathroom."

"What if you fall? Let me call the nurse."

"Gibbs," Tony tries to put strength in his voice, "it's fine. This isn't any worse than lots of times. I'll be fine. Just...just give me a minute. Please?" The pauses, the rasp of his voice, the plea...all calculated to get him what he wants, needs. He doesn't look at Gibbs, keeps his gaze on his hands, flipping them over and back again. The man probably suspects but so far he has done what Tony asked. Maybe he'd do this too.

"I'll be right outside. Yell and I'll hear you."

"Okay." Tony swings his feet down to hang on the side of the bed, even this much movement closer toward Gibbs making the voice in his head gibber in panic until finally Gibbs turns and walks away, through the door.

Adrenaline still surging, Tony looks around and starts opening doors. He manages to get his jeans on, pausing only an instant at the sight of dried blood on the legs. Thank god the hospital gown ties in the back because he never would have been able to wrestle the hospital gown over his head. He tosses the dirty t-shirt aside—he'll never get it on—and puts his equally dirty jacket on instead, zipping it all the way up. He sees his cell phone and wallet on the bedside table. Gibbs must've put them there. He snags them, and his boots, and shuffles painfully to the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he sits on the toilet and starts putting his boots on. He can't manage to hold the phone with his shoulder—fuck fuck fuck that hurt—so he loses another valuable minute before he can call directory assistance and get the hospital switchboard to page Gibbs. A minute later, he hears voices outside his door: female, Gibbs, female, Gibbs. And then no recognizable voices.

Still acting on instinct, whatever had landed him here in the hospital burning and crackling in a path toward his conscious mind, Tony slips out of the door as if just coming from visiting his good friend Tony DiNozzo. Poor guy, sick in bed. He should reassure the man's family and friends, should text them and look concerned as he walks toward the hospital gift shop. The guy could use a magazine. Tony stops a nurse, asks which elevator will take him to the gift shop. She gives him a funny look, asks him if he has been seen yet. He smiles sheepishly, nods, says it looks worse than it is, and while her nurse's eyes don't buy his own assessment of his health, they don't think he is actually sneaking out of his room and this hospital, so she directs him to a different bank of elevators, ones that will lead him out.

Once in the elevator, unfortunately not alone, Tony allows himself to slump in the back corner, leaning his head back and resting his eyes, willing the dizziness and weakness to subside. Just for a little while. Just a few more minutes. On the ground floor he worries that he'll run into McGee or Abby or Ziva or Ducky but there is a family instead with a wheelchair and some little kids and a lot of doctors and nurses and volunteers, but he forces his body to lope smoothly toward the door, no indication of hurry and covering up the pain to the best of his ability. At the last minute, he swerves away from the revolving doors, realizing that he would probably trip, and runs into someone. He doesn't apologize, just leans his weight against the single push door out until he is standing in the courtyard and there is a taxi stand but across the street, even better, is a drug store and a Dunkin' Donuts. He finds a loose plastic shopping bag on the side of the building and wraps his phone in it, tossing it under a fire escape. Maybe it'll still work when he gets it back.

At the drugstore, he buys a burner phone and a baseball cap—never thought he'd wear a Nationals hat—and then uses the ATM to get out the maximum $400 withdrawal. Then he walks next door to the coffee shop, uses the bathroom—finally!—orders a large coffee and drops heavily into a seat by the window. It is important he stay awake and he really really needs to sit down. As he watches the hospital entrance, he plans his escape. He plots several different routes, by train, bus, and airplane. He thinks about where he might go, people he could stay with. He even briefly considers taking a boat somewhere but the thought of it means he has to put a cold and shaking hand against the back of his neck and breathe through his nose to keep from gagging.

Time passes. He is about half done his coffee when he sees Gibbs come out of the hospital and look around. He moves swiftly around the building and eventually comes back with the plastic bag, Tony's phone. Tony is fading, fatigue and stress and injury generating a fog of pleasant indifference, but he still smiles to see Gibbs. He watches patiently while McGee and Ziva join him. Eventually, Ziva interviews the taxi drivers and McGee and Gibbs go back into the hospital. Once Ziva too leaves, Tony rises and leaves the sanctuary of the coffee shop, walking slowly—like an old man—a couple blocks away to a hotel and uses one of their taxis to go where he needs to go.

LJG&TD

At Gibbs' house at last he realizes he has never been so grateful that the man doesn't lock his door. He dozed in the cab but in between bouts of blessed unconsciousness, he remembered everything from that day. He doesn't know what he is going to do but running away won't ease the ache, will just make it worse.

He kicks off his boots, strips off his jacket, and crawls onto the soft plaid weave of the couch. He reaches up and pulls the Gibbs-smelling afghan down and over his bare back and chest and up around his neck, rubbing his nose into it, letting his body sink into cushions. He allows himself to rest. He catalogs every ache in every muscle, as they relax and release. The gash burns on his forehead. His head, the pulsing ache behind his right eye that probably means a migraine by tomorrow, feels like it is going to explode. And the hurt in his chest, the choking sensation, is still there, still bad, except he knows what it is now, and somehow that makes it both better and worse. He is so happy to be lying down, to be here at Gibbs' house, that he wants to cry. Maybe he does a little, but there is no one to see, just like there is no one to chide him for going to sleep. He takes a shuddering breath and moves his face over the afghan trying to dry his eyes but the blanket is the kind of soft that is synthetic and he just ends up smearing wet over hot cheeks. He feels sorry for himself but stops himself from crying more. He's Tony DiNozzo and Tony DiNozzo doesn't cry. Much. Plus he is tired and he is going to sleep and no one is going to stop him. He hopes, vaguely, that he dies from his concussion since it hurts so bad and there is no one to wake him up every two hours and ask him stupid questions. What the hell happens if you fall asleep and don't get woken up to answer questions, anyway?

If he dies this time, though, he won't take Gibbs with him. And at this cheering thought, feeling somehow as though he has accomplished his mission, Tony lets sleep take him away.

LJG&TD

A cool hand on his hot face. "Tony? Tony, wake up now."

Gibbs is here. Tony still feels so tired, and his head still hurts, but it is more concentrated now, not an all-over throbbing. Definitely a migraine coming. He is awake now, but hasn't opened his eyes.

"I know you're awake. C'mon now. Open your eyes."

Tony opens his eyes. Gibbs is close, right next to him, must be kneeling next to the couch. Tony hopes he put a pillow down under his knees.

"What time is it?"

"About three in the morning."

"Oh." Tony's eyes flick to the dark windows, but they show only the reflection of the single lamp that Gibbs must have turned on. He doesn't remember turning a lamp on.

"Where'd you go?" At the question, Tony's eyes come back to Gibbs'. Gibbs' voice is gruff as ever but quiet and gentle now. Tony feels Gibbs' breath against his cheek.

"Here."

Gibbs doesn't react, other than to put his hand on Tony's cheek again. "Why did you try to leave?"

Tony thinks about that for a minute, but then asks the only question that really matters.

"Why did you?"

Gibbs eyes close but Tony's don't. He watches the small movements behind the vulnerable lids, the nostrils flaring with each breath. Gibbs' thumb moves back and forth back and forth against Tony's cheek and Tony realizes that he is just glad that Gibbs is here. Tony is thinking about closing his own eyes again when Gibbs' piercing blue eyes are on his, and he answers.

"I can't do it again." He doesn't look away, but Tony can tell he wants to. Tony watches as Gibbs holds himself rigidly in check and tells the truth. "I cannot be the one that survives. Not again. First Shannon. Now you." Tony can't believe Gibbs said it out loud. Just like that. Shannon's name, and then his own. Well that was one question answered anyway. Not just the care of a boss for his employee, or a friend, or a son.

"Did you know before today?" Had Gibbs...felt...this way all along? How long?

"No." Gibbs' eyes show that this statement is too painful not to be the truth. He would never have chosen to lie about this.

Tony shivers and takes a deep breath in, or as deep as he can manage, the sensitive tissue of his lungs rebelling as he pushes his limits. As he starts to breathe out through his nose, Tony closes his eyes and hooks a hand around Gibbs' neck, pulling the older man's face down to his own. He pulls until their foreheads touch, until their noses bump a little, until Tony can whisper against Gibbs' mouth. "Okay."

Tony might have imagined the dry lips brushing against his own. But he didn't.

"Gibbs?"

"Yeah?"

"I need my headache medicine."

Gibbs straightens, and although he looks kind of shaken—not something Tony has seen often—he is all business again, looks Tony over carefully. "I think you need more than just that."

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. "Yeah, maybe, but I really need my headache medicine. There is one in my wallet. If I need two, you'll have to get one from my apartment."

"I'll call Ducky if we do. You feel hot too. Did you take any ibuprophen when you got here?"

"No." Eyes still shut, Tony feels Gibbs stand and reach behind him to slip his wallet from his pants, hears him walk to the kitchen, get down a glass, pour him water from the tap, walk back to the living room. Gibbs puts the glass and, presumably, pills, down on the end table, and then reaches for Tony, puts a warm, strong hand around his shoulder and slides the other to rest in the center of his back. Tony almost moans at how good the contact feels. Gibbs exerts a steady, careful, but relentless pressure until Tony sits up enough that Gibbs can hold out pills and help Tony swallow water. Before he lets Tony sit back, Gibbs sits down behind him on the couch. He keeps a hand on Tony's back, propping him up until he can slide one leg up and around Tony, the other on the floor. When Tony lies back, he is resting against Gibbs strong chest, one of Gibbs' arms wrapped around him so his hand rests against Tony's chest, just where the pain is the worst.

He is uncomfortable, Gibbs must be too, but Tony rests for a minute, afraid honestly, that if he moves, Gibbs will move away, go away, and the smell of Gibbs, the heat of him, is so perfect that Tony just closes his eyes and lets the awkward embrace continue.

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you turn over? I think you'd be more comfortable." The other man shifts a little. "I know I would."

With Gibbs' help, Tony turns over and drapes himself over the other man, cheek pressed against tired cotton. Gibbs sighs and one hand comes to rest easily in the center of Tony's bare back, rubbing gently, and the other rubs small circles into Tony's temple.

Tony almost cries—again—in relief. He must make some sound because Gibbs' voice rumbles under his cheek. "Better?"

Tony squeezes the other man in a wordless hug of gratitude and presses harder against Gibbs.

After a while, Gibbs moves his hand away and Tony hums in protest.

"Just a minute, Tony. I need to call the others. They're still looking for you."

Guilt. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"Ducky…Ducky...I've got him...what?...no, no, nothing like that...he was at my house...I haven't asked him...he seems fine...we haven't talked about it really...fine—"

Gibbs pats him on the back. "Tony? When did you get here?"

Tony tried to think. "Dunno. Maybe an hour or so after I left."

"Have you been sleeping the whole time?"

"Yeah."

"Did you take anything at all? Any medicine?"

"No. Hurt too much. Just wanted to sleep."

"Okay. Good. Go back to sleep."

"Not sleeping."

"Okay. Go back to not sleeping."

"Okay."

Tony heard him put the phone back up to his ear. "Did you catch all that?...yeah, I'll watch him...I gave him his headache medicine. Do you know what he takes? He says he might need more...okay, have someone drop it off then...okay...thanks, Duck...yeah I'll tell him...can you call the others and let them know?...yeah...okay, Duck...yep. You too." Gibbs snaps the phone shut and tosses it on the end table. His fingers go back to Tony's temple.

"Is the pain any better?" His hands still while he waits for an answer.

Tony can feel the various medicines opening up blood vessels, dulling the pain in his head, quieting the shrieking of pulled and strained muscles. Even the gash on his head isn't throbbing as much.

The pain in his chest is just as bad though. It hurts with every beat of his heart, with every beat of Gibbs'. It hurts like fear. Fear of loss and grieving, of misunderstanding and harsh words, of helplessness in the face of accidents and malice and damage.

The thrum of Gibbs' heartbeat underneath his cheek brings him back to himself, to how good it feels to be close to Gibbs this way. The pain in his chest feels like that too, sweet. Like the sun on his back when he is cold, like coming home to find dinner already made, like recognition and laughter and being known and liked the better for it.

Gibbs' hands start to move again, big warm sweeps across his back and little round circles on his face, and Tony can finally answer.

"Yeah. It's a little better now."