DiNozzo blinked heavily at the ceiling, watching the florescent light fixtures whisk by as they rolled his squeaky-wheeled gurney toward the operating room. Though the fog of pre-op medication had settled over him, Tony was still scared. Despite all the reassurances that he'd be just fine, a gigantic ball of ice had settled in his gut, filling the exact spot where the earlier pain had burned. He felt the urge to verbalize his fears, both mundane and extraordinary, but his tongue felt thick and too clumsy to form words.

Once in the OR, the medical personnel transferred him from the gurney to the operating table with quick efficiency. He shivered in the cold air for a few moments before heated blankets were tucked around him. Tony felt someone position his arms perpendicular to his body.

A minute or so later, the anesthesiologist appeared just above his head. "All right, Tony, I'm going to place the mask over your mouth and nose. Just breathe normally, okay?"

Tony fought a brief flash of panic when the mask settled into place. The world narrowed to the suffocating feel of the restriction and the cool whoosh of air inside the mask.

"Now, starting with one hundred, begin counting backward for me."

"One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-sev…" A deep, endless darkness swallowed him.

(NCIS) (NCIS) (NCIS)

McGee found Gibbs, Ducky, and Abby—who was curled up against their team leader with her head on his shoulder—in the surgical waiting room just over an hour after he listened to the voice mail message from his boss. He strode into the room decked out in black pants, a white puffy-sleeved shirt, and a floor length scarlet cloak.

Gibbs quirked an eyebrow at the unusual get-up. "Something you need to tell us, McGee?"

"Boss?"

"I believe, Timothy, he is perchance referring to your rather dashing attire," supplied Ducky with a grin.

"Oh." McGee glanced down at his clothes. "OH! Sorry, Boss. I was at the Courtyard Washington Capitol Hill giving a lecture on…um…how hard-boiled detectives can be swashbuckling heroes. I…uh…I forgot," Tim paused and cleared his throat, "forgot to change before coming…here." Cheeks flushed, McGee unbuttoned the fastener at his throat and dispensed of the cloak, rolling it into a ball and stashing it on one of the plastic chairs.

Straightening in her seat, Abby smiled and said, "Well, I liked it. It makes you look suave and mysterious. You should wear it more often."

McGee sank into the chair next to his discarded cloak. "How's Tony?"

"They took him to surgery forever ago," lamented the forensic specialist.

"Now, Abigail, it's only been a little over a half hour since they wheeled him to the surgical suite."

Abby pulled her knees upward, resting her feet on the edge of her seat, and dropped her chin to her knees. "Well, it seems like forever, Ducky!"

"I'm afraid, my dear, that we've a long while to go."

"Surgery? It's that bad?" inquired the junior field agent.

"Blunt trauma to the abdomen can be quite an enigma," intoned the medical examiner, "Get hit one way and it's nothing more than sore muscles and a nasty bruise; get hit another and it results in some form of internal bleeding, which is what's happened in young Anthony's case. Of course, there are a number of components to factor in—"

"Duck!" Gibbs growled to head off the foreseeable technical lecture.

"Oh, dear. I'm afraid I've taken a page from your book, Abigail. I do tend to ramble when I worry."

"It's okay, Duckman, it happens to all of us. Well, all of us except the silver-haired fox sitting next to me! He never rambles. He barely talks. In fact, I don't know what I'd do if he actually rambled in any way, shape, or form…"

"Abs!" This time Gibbs' growl held a distinct edge of exasperation.

Tim's gaze darted around the room. "So, where's Ziva?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Left her a voice mail." The MCRT team leader stood and stretched, grimacing as various joints popped. "I need some coffee."

Abby gracefully unfolded her body and sprang from the chair. "I'll come too! Do you think they have Caf-Pow around here anywhere?"

The corner of Jethro's mouth tilted upward in a slight grin. "I don't think so, Abs. You'll have to settle for something else."

"Red Bull! I can always get a Red Bull. If not, Mountain Dew. It's not perfect, but it'll do."

Putting a hand at the small of Abby's back and nudging her forward, Gibbs asked, "You guys want anything?"

Receiving a round of no's, they headed toward the door. Their leave-taking was interrupted, however, by the arrival of the last member of the team. Slightly breathless, Ziva nearly tripped through the door.

"Now I know why I do not routinely wear high-heeled shoes! They are truly instruments of torture!"

"Wow, Ziva, look at you!" exclaimed Abby. "I love that dress." The dress in question was a knee-length, form-fitting midnight blue with matching lace panels in some very strategic places. The torturous high-heeled shoes in question matched the dress.

"Thank you, Abby." Ziva kicked off the offensive footwear. "I am sorry it took me so long to get here. My mobile phone was off. I was at Et Voila! on a date. Or more accurately waiting for my date. He did not show. I got…uh…propped up, yes?"

"Stood. Stood up," corrected McGee.

"Yes, well, I was checking my phone to see if the…uh…skunk?—no, weasel—if the weasel had left a message when I got the one you left about Tony. How is he?"

Ziva received the same update as McGee had just a short while before, minus Ducky's tendency toward tangential digression. She sank into a chair with a sigh. "I am shocked. He did not look that bad when we left the bullpen earlier. Did he, McGee?"

"No. Not to me. Black eye and a fat lip."

"Perhaps so," allowed Dr. Mallard, "but internal bleeding can be quite a slow and insidious thing. I daresay the poor boy didn't have a clue as to just how injured he really was."

"Ziva, Gibbs and I are going for coffee. You want anything?"

"No, I am good, Abby. It is kind of you to ask."

Jethro and Abby left the waiting room and headed down the corridor toward the nearest bank of elevators. The forensic specialist was subdued as they walked down the hallway. After a few moments, she asked, "Are you going to 'punish' Tony for breaking one of your rules?" The dark-haired Goth stopped mid-stride and spun on her heel. "I mean if he's okay. He is going to be okay, right Gibbs? 'Cause he has to be!"

Gibbs grabbed her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Yes. On both counts, Abby. I promise."

"Have you decided what it'll be?"

"Nope. Not yet."

They started walking again. "Hiding an injury's a big rule to break. Man, I still remember my punishment for breaking rule number fourteen—"

"Fifteen."

"Oh, right! Fifteen."

"What? You didn't like painting my backyard fence?"

"Of course, I liked it! But if I told you I liked it then it wouldn't have been a successful Gibbs' punishment." Abby pushed the down button to summon an elevator car.

"Well, you did paint it purple with silver skulls on it. I think that gave me a clue, Abs."

"Creative, huh? It looked amazing when I got done with it."

Gibbs' blue eyes momentarily danced with amusement. "Mmm, yeah, it's a regular Abigail Sciuto masterpiece."

"So what're you going to do for, Tony?" The doors to one elevator car slid open and Jethro and Abby boarded.

Gibbs pushed the button for the first floor. "I've got one or two things in mind. Don't worry, Abs. The 'punishment' will fit the crime."

TBC…


A/N: One chapter left to go, I think. A nice little epilogue to this tale. I'd LOVE to know what you guys thought of this chapter. Reviews are love. :-)