Author Notes: Acute Coryza is one of the names for a common cold.
Timothy McGee fingers were typing a million times an hour.
Another bout of coughing came from Tony's direction.
He typed faster.
If not a little neurotic.
More coughing.
His fingers no longer typed intelligent English and slammed a fist down on his normally precious keyboard.
"Tony!"
The older agent shot him a disgruntled look, "Something bothering you, McTimmy?"
Tim felt like he was ready to implode, "Yeah, can you not cough so loudly? I have work to do."
Tony scowled and wiped his very blue nose...red...he meant red nose.
Not blue.
'Stop thinking about that,' McGee mentally reprimanded.
Tony was still talking in the background, "-And for your information McProbie, I have a cold."
Timothy sighed, "That just makes it worse!"
"Why?"
"Well it could develop into pneumonia!"
Tony looked at him like he grew five heads, "...Are you okay Tim?"
He was fine.
Tim gave a tight smile, stress levels sky rocketing.
More coughing caused him to snap.
"STOP! PLEASE STOP!" The junior agent lowered his head, fingers tearing through his hair.
Tony sauntered over to his desk slowly.
"...It's been five years Probie," he said softly, "I'm fit as a fiddle."
Tim jerked up, feeling exasperated, "Yeah! Except you're not! Alright?! I'm sorry if my friend almost dying from the pneumonic plague bothers me. Alright?! 15% survival rate. It wasn't if and or but Tony: You were dying."
Silence in the bull pen.
McGee's words hung in the air.
Tony swallowed roughly, "I'm sorry if that whole ordeal was so traumatic for you."
McGee stood, grabbing a stack of files to put away, "What's traumatizing is Kate dying the very next week."
Tony's mood immediately soured, "Thank you for bringing that up, McDamaged."
Tim glared back, slamming the metal door shut.
He was struggling.
Nearly losing his two friends in a very short amount of time was hard.
Very hard.
Time healed all wounds but a single cough could dredge up a thousand memories.
'Just breath,' he coaxed.
The agent entered the head, slamming the door open aggressively.
Gibbs was here.
Great.
"...Something bothering you McGee?"
Tim paced maniacally within a short distance, "I'M FINE!"
He snatched a line of paper towels off its roll and washed his hands.
Furiously scrubbing off an imaginary enemy.
"...You look pissed," his Boss told him simply.
Images flashed before his eyes.
"He's dying Ducky!"
Paper white/graying skin.
Blood on blue lips.
Never ending coughing.
He tore a cuticle scrubbing, fucking-A!
Tim slammed the faucet off.
Gibbs joined him at the bathroom mirror, "Wanna talk about it?"
This was usually the part where he gave in.
Spilled everything to his boss.
...Okay, that part hadn't changed.
Tim spun around, facing him, "Tony's sick."
Gibbs eyebrows shot up, flicking water off his hands, "Yeah McGee, he's had the flu for weeks."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
Something clicked in the other man's blue eyes, "McGee...if I worried about Tony every time he scrapes his knee or looks a little tired I'd be a very different man. Him coughing isn't anything to worry about."
Tim felt frustrated, "...I know it's been five years and we're all NCIS agents-it's apart of the job but...it just sends me flying into an irrational panic anytime Tony gets even a little sick."
His boss stepped into his personal space bubble, shaking his head, "It's not irrational."
Not irrational.
Stupid stupid-
"HEY! MCGEE! Look at me," Gibbs ordered.
He did.
"Not your fault."
That resulted in Tim frowning, "What?"
"Anyone could have opened that letter."
White powder flew everywhere.
It landed all over Tony.
Tim thought he was fine.
Five years, what's done is done.
Moving on...
(If he could only get the agent to stop coughing.)
Black & White Poof
Fin.