The team filed back into the squad room seven hours later, all tired and grumpy from the two-hour, traffic-knotted car ride out to their suspect's home near Sparrows Point in Edgemere, Maryland, the three hours spent searching the home and grounds, and the two-hour ride back—made worse by the fact that it had been raining and they were all wet and cold.

And their suspect had been nowhere around.

Ziva dropped her bag behind her desk and sank into her chair, only to pop up again when she realized drenching her seating arrangements for what was going to be a long night was probably a bad idea. She pulled pants and a soft green sweater from her bottom drawer, glad she had something warm to put on after being out in the spring rain, surprisingly cold thanks to the wind blowing in off the bay.

"I still do not understand how Maryland has a western shore," she said, watching McGee digging clothes from his desk, too.

The agent stopped, looked up, and then went back to his digging. "The eastern part of Maryland is on a peninsula," he said, sounding distracted as he plunked a fresh shirt onto his desk, "with the Chesapeake Bay splitting the state almost in two. Both shores of the upper bay are part of Maryland; ergo, eastern and western shores."

" 'Ergo,' Probie?" came Tony's tired, muffled voice.

McGee and Ziva turned to see their boss slumped on his desk, his face buried in his dripping sleeves.

"What's wrong with 'ergo'?" McGee asked, studying Tony's wet shirt and knowing it was the spare the agent kept in his desk.

"It's just so… 'ergo'," Tony said, not lifting his head. "What does that even mean?"

"Ergo," McGee repeated, as if that explained everything. He continued at the silence. "As in, 'therefore'. As in, 'Tony, you look like one of Ducky's corpses; ergo, you should go put some dry clothes on.' "

Tony sat up, slowly, his green eyes standing out against the pallor of his skin. Ziva watched him, wondering what McGee had said to make Tony look so suddenly haunted.

McGee didn't have to wonder. He knew as soon as the words came out of his mouth that he had repeated Gibbs' oddly gentle order from the night Kate had died—verbatim, if his memory served. It wasn't really a surprise because he had been thinking about Kate most of the ride back, thanks to the driving rain and Tony's attempts to cover his slight wheezing with too many jokes. Tim would always equate Tony's colds with Kate's death, his teammate's slightest sneeze often making his own heart skip a beat.

"Here," Tim said, dropping his dry shirt next to Tony's wet arm. "You take this. I have gym clothes I can put on." He waited for some comment about his workout efforts, but it never came.

Tony just eyed the shirt for a moment as if uncertain whether he should actually take it.

"Go," McGee said, frowning at him. "You're dripping all over your keyboard, and I don't want to have to fix it."

Tony nodded and got up, stifling a little cough. "Thanks," he said. "I'll be right back. Tim—"

"Take the evidence down to Abby," the probie said, nodding.

"And I will check on the BOLO," Ziva said, not entirely understanding McGee's concern as he stared at their boss. But she did see it, and she said, "And then I will order dinner. Pizza, Tony? Or Chinese?"

"Uh, doesn't matter," Tony said, drawing a surprised look from Ziva.

The agent walked out of the room, and McGee watched him go before turning back to find Ziva planted in his way. He raised an eyebrow at her, simultaneously wondering why she was suddenly standing close enough to touch and how he hadn't noticed her movements.

Maybe Tony's right about that ninja chick thing, Tim thought.

"What is wrong with Tony?" she asked.

Tim was tempted to lie—it wasn't really anyone's business but Tony's—but the look on Ziva's face made lying seem like a very dumb idea.

"Come on, McGee," she said impatiently. "We are partners. And he is our … teammate, too. And that look on his face was clearly pain—though I am not entirely sure if it was physical or otherwise. And he is white as a sheep, and—"

Tim couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. "White as a 'sheet', Ziva," he corrected once he had recovered the ability to speak through his giggles.

The Israeli just eyed him. "Are sheep not also white, McGee?"

"Uh," McGee said, cocking his head. "You know, they are, aren't they? The ones in kids' books anyway, because I doubt a real sheep on a real farm is quite that… um, pristine," he finished, gulping at the look on Ziva's face.

"What is wrong with Tony?" she asked again, her staccato words like premonitions of gunfire. "He kept putting his hand to his chest, only to move it quickly whenever he noticed I was watching him."

McGee considered that, wondering why Ziva had noticed and he hadn't. He shook his head. "He's probably getting a cold or something. He had the plague, you know."

"I know," was all Ziva said. She took a tiny step back, moving only slightly out of Tim's space. "Should we make him go home to rest?"

Another small laugh escaped, but McGee stifled it quickly. "Good luck with that. He was back at work within a couple of weeks." He bit his lip, looking away and wincing when his gaze fell on Ziva's desk—Kate's desk. He shook his head slightly, not needing a reminder that he had lost two members of his team now. The thought had registered, though, and it made him wonder if he had been shoving Tony away out of fear of losing him, too.

"Oh, so it was not that serious then?"

Ziva's voice snapped McGee out of his fog and he spoke without really thinking, thoughts of losing Tony obviously affecting his words. "Kate and I took turns holding his hand that first night, making jokes about 'getting lucky' and beating the nearly overwhelming odds that he would die while we sat there, with nothing to do to help him but listen to him cough and wipe the blood from his mouth." McGee stopped for a breath and looked up. "You, uh, probably shouldn't tell him that. I don't think he even remembers it."

Ziva met his gaze with a rare soft compassion. "It sounds like you were just being good friends to him. That is nothing to be ashamed of."

McGee just nodded and picked up the box of evidence, not bothering to tell her it was more for Tony's sake that no one ever brought up his near-death experience. Tim hadn't really understood at the time when Tony had practically begged them to leave him alone—but he got it completely when, an hour later, he had held his shaking, sweat-soaked partner in his arms while Tony hacked up blood, both of them painfully aware of the tears leaking down his pale cheeks, a product of pain, exhaustion and the sheer effort of trying to clear his flooded lungs.

"You should order Chinese," McGee said. "And get lots of soup."

Tony stood with his hands braced against the bathroom sink, hunched over in pain as the brutal coughing fit made it feel like his lungs had been replaced with shattered glass, the jagged little fragments rattling around in his chest as he fought to breathe normally.

He closed his eyes against the black spots swirling through his vision like charred snowflakes and tried to gulp in air between the wet, hacking coughs racking his body. He fought the familiar panic that always flooded through him when these attacks caught him alone, and he wondered if this would be the time when he wouldn't be able to catch his breath.

Dying on a bathroom floor was not extremely high on his list of acceptable ways to go.

"Tony."

The firm voice accompanied a soft touch against his back, but Tony was too busy gasping to acknowledge either.

"I'm going to hit you. Here," the voice said, tapping his back with both hands, just below his shoulder blades. "We need to get that crap out of your lungs."

Tony nodded, bracing for the twin blows, but they landed hard and fast against his weakened body, and he sagged against the counter, his head swimming as he tried to stay upright. He felt an arm go around him as his helper wedged between him and the sink, holding him up.

"I need to do chest percussions," the voice said. "Can you stand on your own?"

The agent managed another nod and waited for the blows against his ribs that would loosen the mucus in his lungs. Two cupped hands hit him, forcefully but not causing pain, and then again, higher against his chest. The sound of the blows was hollow, as he knew it should be, and Tony was glad for the skilled hands helping him.

"You need to cough now. Deep, slow breath in," the voice coached, now coming from slightly behind him. The arm stayed around his chest, though, supportive but not constricting. "Contract your upper abdominal muscles and cough hard."

Tony did as he was told, gagging as he brought up fluid that he didn't dare check for blood. He hated admitting—even to himself—how much those little red flecks scared him.

"Done?"

Tony nodded again and allowed himself to be lowered to the floor and propped against the cool tile wall. He decided to test his ability to speak, but he didn't open his eyes, afraid of shedding the tears brought by the effort of the coughing.

"This wasn't… exactly… what I meant… when I said… you could take me… in a fight… Gremlin."

Jimmy's soft laugh made Tony jump as he realized the assistant was sitting on the floor beside him.

"Maybe when you're feeling better, we can duke it out in the ring."

Tony drew a shuddery breath, kicking himself for not being more careful after he had felt this infection settling in days ago. "I feel… fine."

Jimmy snorted. "Oh, I'm sorry. So that wasn't you just hacking up a lung in here?"

Tony opened his eyes long enough for a short glare. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Palmer."

"And stupidity doesn't suit you, DiNozzo," Jimmy said without missing a beat. "You know you can't let yourself get this bad. Not unless you want to end up in a hospital with pneumonia."

"It… came on kinda… quick," Tony said, trying not to pant between words and failing miserably.

Jimmy rolled his eyes even though Tony's were still shut tightly, whether in pain or embarrassment he didn't know. "That kind of mucus buildup doesn't happen during an afternoon in the rain. You know that, and I know that. And you know I know that. So don't lie to either of us, okay?"

"I'm sorry," Tony said, meaning it. He was just so tired... He frowned, meeting Jimmy's eyes. "How did you know I was… out in the rain all afternoon?"

"Really?" Palmer asked, raising an eyebrow and scanning the shivering agent sitting beside him. "You're dripping all over the floor, Tony."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "You should have let McGee and Ziva wander outside in the rain, if it needed to be done."

Tony's laugh turned quickly into a cough, and he took the paper towels Jimmy was offering, spitting thick fluid into them and feeling slightly better now that the junk wasn't clogging his lungs. He watched as Palmer took the towels and checked the contents before throwing the wad away.

"No blood," Jimmy said, settling back in beside the agent and grabbing Tony's arm as he tried to get up. "Sit here and rest for a few minutes. You'll pass out if you stand up now."

"DiNozzos do not pass out," Tony grumbled.

Palmer rolled his eyes again. "That's like saying supermodels don't fart. Seems like it should be true, but it's totally bogus."

Tony laugh-coughed again, but he was glad to find it was a dry hack this time. He felt Jimmy's eyes on him and he sighed carefully. "Say it, Palmster."

"Why didn't you?" he asked, even though he figured he already knew the answer. "Why not have your agents search out in the rain while you checked inside?"

"Why would I make them stay out in the rain while I stayed nice and warm and dry inside?" Tony returned.

"I can think of two reasons, right off the top of my head," Jimmy said. "A, you have extensive scarring in your lungs because you had the damned plague—the pneumonic plague—and that makes you vulnerable to respiratory infections, which you know. And you knew you were getting sick."

Choosing to ignore all that, Tony asked, knowing the answer, "And B?"

Jimmy glared as if he had wanted some acknowledgment of his words—some indication that Tony knew just how dangerous this condition could be for him. "And B, you're their boss, Tony. You could have ordered them outside to do the work you weren't feeling up to doing with them."

"And then listened to them mock me for it? No thanks." Tony took a breath, extremely relieved to find it no longer hurt to pull in air. "They already hate me."

"They don't hate you."

Tony raised an eyebrow at that—and then raised a hand to his head as pain flared through his temple.

"How bad's the headache?" Jimmy asked, softly, getting up to kneel in front of his patient. He raised his own hand and placed it against Tony's forehead. "You're not feverish. Any shaking? Chills?"

"No."

Jimmy shook his head. "Like you'd be able to tell with these wet clothes. Any muscle aches?"

"Aside from sleeping on Ducky's crappy couch?"

"Any chest pain?"

"Only when you punched me."

Jimmy went completely still, his eyes wide behind the round frames of his glasses. "Wait, Tony. Did I hurt you?" He reached out a hand and touched Tony's arm. "Chest percussions aren't supposed to be painful."

The genuine worry in Palmer's eyes had Tony feeling guilty—and some other emotion he couldn't quite place and frankly didn't spend much time trying to. "No, Gremlin. I was just kidding."

A nod was followed by a quick push on the gold frames. "This is probably why doctors have no sense of humor."

"Don't let Ducky hear you say that," Tony said, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

Jimmy cracked a smile. "Come on. Get up and get changed. And then you're coming with me for a chest x-ray—"

"I don't have time for—"

"Do you have time to lie around in a hospital, hooked up to IV antibiotics and having 'dates' with respiratory therapists?"

Tony eyed Jimmy's steely determination. "Is the therapist some hot chick named Fiona with a nice ass?"

"He's a 300-pound dude named Frank with wandering hands," Jimmy said, deadpan.

Tony shivered. "Fine. But I'm not sticking around while you develop the films."

"Yes, you will," Palmer stated. "We'll get something to eat while we wait."

The agent allowed Jimmy to haul him to his feet, and Tony was rather proud of himself that he didn't fall over—didn't even feel dizzy. He sighed and gave in. "Good thing Ziva's ordering dinner. I'll split with you whatever she ordered me." He looked down at the probie's shirt in his hand and reminded himself to thank McGee when he got back upstairs.

"They don't hate you, you know."

Tony looked up to find Jimmy staring at the shirt, too. "Well, they don't exactly like me," Tony said.

Jimmy gave him a slightly exasperated look. "You're their new boss, Tony. No one likes their new boss. Hell, I'd say you were doing something wrong if they liked you at this point."

Tony took that in as he moved into a stall to change out of his wet clothes. There was no sound of the outer door closing, and he smiled a little as he realized Jimmy was staying, making sure Tony didn't faceplant into a toilet or something.

"You know," he called, "it's still kinda weird hearing you say 'hell'."

There was a slight pause, and then Jimmy's voice carried back over the partition.

"So you'd probably be really freaked out if I told you to hurry the fuck up then, huh?"

Tony laughed. "Uh, yeah."

"Oops," Jimmy said. "But really, could you hurry the fuck up? I'm starving."