A/N: So, I was listening to "Times Like These" by Foo Fighters, and this little one shot popped into my mind. This is not a songfic, though; the song just inspired me and put me in the mood to write, and gave me an idea for the title.
Story's set at the beginning of the Fourth Season, but it's not a tag to any specific episode; more or less a few weeks after Gibbs' return to DC from Mexico.

Hope you like it ;)
If you have suggestions, comments or if you just feel like letting me know what you think about the story, leave a review or PM me; constructive criticism is always appreciated, since it helps making stories better. And, hopefully, it'll help my English, too.

Disclaimer: I don't own the show, the characters, the locations or anything else related to NCIS. No copyright infringement intended: I'm just playing around a bit with the characters for my enjoyment and - I hope - for other people's enjoyment, too.

Tony let his gaze wander around his living room, trying to distract himself from that annoying tickling sensation at the back of his throat.

Not that it was actually working.

It had begun a couple of hours before, when he was still at work; he had tried to deny the feeling, to force it away just with sheer will, but, so far, it hadn't worked.

Not that it usually did.

Yersinia Pestis. Damaged, scarred lungs. High probability to suffer from acute, chronic bronchitis.

The fateful words had been pronounced years, ages ago –Kate was still alive back then, it almost seemed unbelievable – but their mocking sound still resonated in his mind.

High chance to suffer from breathing troubles.

Dammit, DiNozzo, think about something else!

But how can you think about something else, when your chest feels constricted, your throat closed?
And the mild pain in his ribs – thanks to a confrontation with a hostile suspect the day before – sure wasn't helping. No broken ribs – thanks God! – but a couple of badly bruised ones.
And coughing hardly seemed the best thing to do at the moment.

Damn the doctor for being right! Couldn't my damn lungs just heal perfectly?

How many times had he been forced to focus just to keep his breathing in check? Too many to count. Just to breathe. Damn it, it was one of the most natural body actions, yet he sometimes felt totally unable to achieve it.
And, during the last few months, more or less since Gibbs had fled to Mexico, those annoying breathing troubles had kept popping up more often than usual.

Maybe, like Ducky had gently tried to suggest, the stress and strain of the period could have played a part in it.
First of all, his forced stunt as the team leader. It's not like he didn't feel ready to have his own team. Just, not this team. Not team Gibbs.
Nobody had ever really believed that DiNozzo was going to be the leader for long. Not Tony, not his colleagues. It was not a matter of trust, or respect. Both Ziva and McGee were simply sure that it was just a temporary solution, and they had acted consequently.

But above all, Tony had felt Gibbs' absence. He had felt it every day, every hour, every minute.
Oh, sure, everybody else in the team had felt it, too. Just, the bond he shared with Gibbs was more than a mere work relationship. It wasn't just admiration or respect.
Gibbs was his best friend, his mentor; or, at least, so Tony had thought.
He stifled a sigh – he had found out at his expenses that sighing was not recommended in those circumstances. It didn't help at all the tickling in the throat.

Now Gibbs was back, and things had more or less gone back to normal for everybody else.

Just, not for Tony.

Things had adjusted back to normalcy, the old normalcy – team Gibbs was back.

The only thing that had not come back from Mexico was the friendship he once had with Gibbs.

Gibbs used to be able to read him like a book, before. Now, he didn't anymore. Or maybe he simply didn't care enough to do it anymore, Tony sadly mused.

He mentally headslapped himself at the thought.

Come on DiNozzo! Maybe Gibbs just has bigger troubles at the moment than coming here and play babysitter! The guy's been in a coma, he's lost fifteen years of memories, then got'em back. He has other concerns right now. His life doesn't revolve around you.

Yet, a month had passed, now, since Gibbs had come back.

And not once in the whole period, not a single time they had met after work.

Not a dinner together, not a chat over a glass of bourbon, not a beer in Tony's living room or Gibbs' basement. Nothing.

And the weird thing was that, now that Gibbs was back, Tony missed him more than before.

When the Marine was away and the responsibility of the whole team had weighed on Tony's shoulders, it had been a damn hard period. Yet, Tony had never stopped hoping, praying that the Boss was going to come back home. He had known that; it was just a matter of time.

But now Gibbs was back, and things were not all right.

He had believed that Gibbs' presence alone would have been enough to make things right again. Man, he had been wrong!

Tony swallowed, trying not to cough. Coughing was not good. It didn't help. Coughing made things worse.

A thought flashed in his mind.

Before Mexico, Gibbs would have been here.

He forced the thought away, feeling childish and selfish, but the bottom line was it was true.

Many times in the last years, since the damn day he contracted the plague, Gibbs had helped him, supporting him through asthma attacks, taking care of his bronchitis, making sure he took his meds or simply being there for him.

Now he wasn't.

Well, to be honest, Ducky had tried his best to fill the void when Gibbs was awayd, and not just from a mere medical point of view; the old doctor had showed up more than once on Tony's steps, called him and made sure the younger man was fine – as fine as he could be anyway - and Tony sure appreciated the gesture and the affection showing in the doctor's kind concern.

Just, it wasn't the same. Ducky wasn't Gibbs.

Tony rubbed his eyes, tired. He wasn't very good at distracting himself from troubling thoughts – he had never been.

He sighed, tired and frustrated, and realized just a second too late his mistake.

The tickling feeling in his throat became unbearable and he started coughing hard. Pain erupted in his chest, his ribs protesting for all the strain they had been subjected to, but he couldn't stop.

Hacking hard, a harm wrapped around his torso, trying in vain to brace himself, he blindly reached for the glass of water sitting on the coffee table – he was sure he had brought one from the kitchen! – but he couldn't find it.

Mentally cursing, he tried to calm himself down, but it was impossible. Memories of blue lights and lack of oxygen and the impression to suffocate filled his mind and he panicked, his heart racing. What if he couldn't stop coughing? Was he going to slowly choke to death? Was he going to-

Suddenly he felt something cold in his hand – a glass. Someone was forcing it in his hand, guiding it to his mouth, and he was suddenly aware of a familiar voice in the background.

"Dammit, DiNozzo, just calm down and breathe!"

Gibbs? Gibbs!

He felt a hand on his back – strong and warm and reassuring – rubbing circles on his clenched muscles.

"Breathe DiNozzo," Gibbs instructed, calm and pragmatic and Tony tried to obey. He felt Gibbs sitting down on the couch near him, bracing him as he hacked hard again.

"Drink some water, DiNozzo."

The younger man managed to drink a few sips of water, the cool liquid felt like heaven on his burning throat.

He coughed again, but less hard this time, and he managed to take a few, deeper breaths.

"That's good, Tony," Gibbs soothed him, his hand still on Tony's back. "Breathe."

A few minutes passed, and Tony's coughing slowly subsided, first into panting, then, finally, into a still ragged but somehow easier breathing.

He took another sip from the glass and finally smiled. "Thanks, Boss," he croaked.

"You want me to call Ducky?" the Marine asked, his expression worried.

Tony hastily shook his head. "Not necessary. 'm fine," he answered, his voice still hoarse.

"Sure you are," the Marine replied, then gestured towards the younger man's chest. "What about your ribs?"

"No big deal, Boss," Tony forced a smile. "I told you, I'm fine."

And he wasn't lying. Well, maybe fine wasn't exactly true; the mild pain in his ribs had morphed into a dull ache, and the coughing fit had left his chest muscles sore and stiff. But the itching sensation at the back of his throat was surprisingly gone, and he was feeling definitely better than a few minutes before. At least he could breathe, now.

Gibbs studied him for a minute, then nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw.

Tony turned towards the Marine. "How did you know…?"
How did you know that I was choking? How did you know that I needed help?

Gibbs threw him a glance. "My gut," he simply said, and a companionable silence fell in the room as they sat on the couch, Tony's increasingly calmer breathing the only sound that could be heard.
Gibbs' hand hadn't moved from the younger man's back.

It felt natural and reassuring, and Tony could feel himself slowly relax. He closed his eyes, silently enjoying his breathing, the raise and fall of his own chest, the air passing through his mouth and nose.
He yawned, dead tired.

"Bed time, DiNozzo," Gibbs commented, kicking his shoes off. "Give me a pillow and a blanket."

"W-what?"

"A pillow and a blanket," Gibbs patiently repeated, sinking deeper in the couch. "I'm staying here."

Tony gaped at him, surprised, as understanding dawned. "No, Boss, there's no need for you to crash here. It was nothing. Probably just something that went in the wrong pipe. I told you, I'm fine and-"

Gibbs glared, actually cutting off Tony's babbling. "Did it sound like a question, DiNozzo?"

"Uh. No, Boss."

"Right. Because it wasn't. Now, the pillow."

"Yeah. Sure Boss. I'm on it." Tony carefully got up and slowly made his way to his bedroom to fetch the requested items.

"DiNozzo."

Tony turned. "Boss?"

"You sure you're all right?"

The younger man smiled –his first real smile in a few months – and nodded. "Sure, Boss."

He turned again and headed towards the bedroom, a small smile playing on his lips.

It was true; he was all right, now.

He felt like he had held his breath for months; and now he could breathe again.

The End

Thanks for reading.