Bulletproof

Oddly enough, this one came to me while I was listening to a Death Cab for Cutie song. The song was about hospital waiting rooms, which made me think of NCIS (doesn't everything?) and the total number of injuries that have been inflicted on the characters on that show. And I realized that the bad luck seems to be unevenly distributed: while some people are constantly being knocked unconscious or infected with deadly diseases or getting blown up in bombs, others seem to get off without a scratch. (Interestingly enough, the same phenomenon often applies in fanfiction as well.) So... I'm just trying to make things fair.

It came out of nowhere. He lay facedown on the sidewalk, gasping like a hooked fish, squinting at the sudden harshness of the January sun. For a minute he thought he was dying, had perhaps died already; and then he realized he could move all of his limbs. He was wearing a vest; why on earth did it hurt so much?

It took a moment to realize that the round hadn't struck his back at all; it had hit a portion of his anatomy about twelve inches down and considerably more embarrassing.

And then the one person he didn't want to see him in that position - ever - was standing over him with a worried face. "Probie? You okay?"

After Gibbs had been and gone (collecting the bullet in its little jar as evidence, and mercifully, he didn't make McGee sign the chain of custody), after Abby had been and gone (bearing black roses and a teddy bear with a sympathy Band-Aid strategically placed over its furry hindquarters), Tony came and stayed. The nurse flicked back the curtains and there he was, not even bothering to ask if he could sit down.

"So," Tony began, long legs stretched in front of him, "how long you in for?"

He was so cheerful. McGee wondered if he could just smother himself by burying his face in the pillows. He wished he'd had the foresight to go to sleep but the drugs they were giving him weren't strong enough for that.

Might as well get it over with. "Overnight," Tim said morosely, wishing he could at least turn over or something. Nothing like facing DiNozzo with his bandaged behind sticking in the air, a sheet-covered object of ridicule. "I'm sure I'll be on desk duty after that."

"Desk duty." Tony stifled a snicker. "You're going to be sitting for the next two weeks?"

McGee rolled his eyes. "Go ahead and say it, okay?"

"Say what?"

"I'm sure you have something to say. I got shot in the butt, Tony."

"So?"

"Say it would have been harder if it wasn't such a big target. Say you know that chicks dig scars, but no girl in her right mind would want to see mine. Say you're going to put my picture up in Abby's lab." Tony stared. "You've had the whole day to think of something. What is it? Come on."

"You done, McGee?" It didn't escape Tim's attention that he hadn't called him Probie. "I just came to see how you were doing. Getting shot sucks, and this is your first time, isn't it?"

Tony, come to offer sympathy? Maybe I did die.

"Look. How long have you been with NCIS, anyway? Two, three years?"

"Four." It sounded like a lot all of a sudden, coming from his own mouth. "One less than you. A year at Norfolk, and three with Gibbs." McGee found himself smiling. "That's probably longer than some of his marriages."

Tony grinned widely. "Nice one, Probe-ster. Hey, I'll let Gibbs know you said that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "My point is, we're Federal agents. Crazy stuff happens all the time to us. And you? You've dodged the bullet, so to speak, up until now."

Tim realized he was right. Except for being whacked over the head with a lamp - that was two years ago, and Tony had never teased him about it, not once - Tim had survived four years at NCIS pretty much unscathed. He hadn't even thought about allowing Tony to be his lightning rod for so long, deflecting all of the bad federal agent karma away from himself. What if Tim had been the one to open that letter? He wasn't running every day - not then, he wasn't - maybe his lungs wouldn't have been strong enough to handle the plague. At the time, Tim had been irritated with Tony for snatching the letter away; he was grateful now. Grateful that his own hide had been spared yet again, yes. But also grateful that the scars it had left on Tony were on the inside and Tim didn't have to feel guilty about it every single day.

And then there was Gibbs. "Gibbs is going to kill me," McGee realized.

"My third week at NCIS, a suspect kicked me in the…" Tony raised his eyebrows. "…you know."

"Ouch," McGee sympathized.

"I thought Gibbs was going to fire me on the spot," Tony continued. "It was a stupid mistake. I used to be a cop, I know how to cuff a guy without getting kicked. Viv thought it was hilarious."

"And Gibbs?" McGee was just drugged enough to find this story fascinating.

"Gibbs didn't say a word," Tony explained, "but he hauled the guy to his feet and practically threw him in the back of the car. It was weird, but kind of touching."

"Yeah," McGee agreed, "but did you ever get shot… there?"

"Philadelphia." Tony fumbled at his belt buckle, teasing. "Wanna see?"

"I don't think I'm on enough drugs for that," McGee retorted. "Is that why you left?"

"Part of it," Tony conceded.

"What do you say in your Christmas newsletter? It's been a good year, I got shot in the butt?"

Tony shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I've been shot, Gibbs has been shot, Ziva… I don't know what Ziva's done back at Mossad, but I wouldn't be surprised to hear she's actually been raised from the dead." They were both thinking of Kate, and for the moment, Tony's face was a mask. "None of us is bulletproof, kid."

"I was a computer forensics major," McGee said. "I never thought I'd be doing this for a living."

"Me neither." Tony's face practically glowed. "But what a rush, huh?"

McGee was clearly flagging, and Tony stood to leave. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, snapping his fingers. "I come bearing gifts, Probalicious."

"Sports Illustrated." McGee's tone fell flat.

"The '92 swimsuit edition?" Tony gestured expansively, as if he still couldn't believe the Probie's stupidity. "It's like the Holy Grail of hotness, McGeek. Enjoy." He considered this for a moment. "Or, you know, read the articles."

"Hey, Tony?" McGee's eyelids were growing heavy, but he knew it was important to say it. Tony paused at the door. "Thanks."