Jimmy Palmer considered himself a fairly brave person.
He knew there were people who would laugh themselves silly at that notion, but he didn't care. He knew—from an experience that made him proud and yet still terrified him—that when the chips were down in a life-or-death situation, he would find the courage to do what needed to be done. Because he had.
But sitting in his friend's car, hearing that gunshot and watching that friend drop to the rain-soaked ground—not knowing whether Tony was dead, hurt or just taking cover—well, that had scared the shit out of fairly brave person Jimmy Palmer.
But Jimmy had shoved all of that aside—all of the fear he had felt grab him with an unrelenting grip during the shootout—and he had simply gotten through it. He barely remembered talking with McGee and Ziva or walking with Tony back to the car. He had driven to the hospital on autopilot, glad for the banter that had given him something to focus on other than the fear he had felt in that split second after that first shot—the fear that he would be performing Tony's autopsy that night instead of forcing the ornery agent to go home and get some sleep as he had planned.
Jimmy forced aside fuzzy memories of Kate's autopsy and tried to focus on the world around him. He was sitting in the waiting room of the ER, having given in when Tony motioned for him to stay when the nurse had called his name earlier. Palmer figured it was safe to let Tony out of his sight because escape was impossible, considering the size of giant male nurse. He also figured it would be easier on Tony if the agent could receive the necessary treatment without having to put on a show, to pretend that he wasn't hurt, tired and still sick.
So Jimmy waited.
And tried not to think.
It wasn't working, though, he realized a moment later upon looking down to find his hands trembling slightly. He wondered if Tony was feeling a similar shakiness, knowing just how close he had come to getting shot in the head earlier. Jimmy wondered if he should try to talk to Tony about it, maybe start by sharing his own harrowing experience in that suburban Washington convenience store. He knew his new friend well enough to be certain that asking outright if Tony was okay was a bad idea.
"You okay, Palmer?"
Jimmy looked up to find Tony staring down at him with a frown.
"I'm fine," Jimmy said, watching the agent pick at the brand-new bandage on his injured hand. "You?"
"Seventeen stitches and a new appreciation for your bedside manner," Tony said, smiling wryly.
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "They didn't offer you a lollipop?" he asked, standing up and stretching.
"What they 'offered' was an overstay night," Tony said, one-handed finger quotes included. "Come on. I need you to tell them my lungs are fine."
Jimmy lowered his arms out of the stretch and cocked his head, studying Tony and suddenly seeing him as a physician might. The guy was ghostly white, shaking lightly in the chill of the air-conditioned hospital thanks to his drippingly wet clothes, and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. In short, he looked about the same as when he'd been wheezing his way through the coughing fit in the men's room.
Jimmy suddenly questioned his doctoring skills.
And Tony's sanity.
And then his own as he nodded and gently shoved Tony into his vacated seat. "What's the doctor's name?"
"Tenley," Tony answered gratefully.
"Stay here," Jimmy said, feeling fairly confident Tony wouldn't run away. The agent looked half-asleep already. And Jimmy still had the keys to the Mustang in his pocket. Still, he added, "I mean it. You better be here when I get back."
Tony mumbled something and waved.
Palmer made quick work of speaking with the doctor, assuring the man that he was a medical student and wouldn't let the patient out of his sight for at least twenty-four hours—and would bring him back immediately if his breathing got any worse.
He returned to the waiting room to find Tony dozing in the uncomfortable plastic chair, and Jimmy lightly kicked his foot to wake him, wincing a little when Tony groaned himself awake, his face pure misery for a second before he pasted a smile on it.
"Good to go?" Tony asked.
But there was little question in it, and Palmer wondered how Tony had come to trust him so quickly. Tony didn't trust anyone. Well, perhaps he had trusted Gibbs, but look how well that had turned out.
"Yep."
"How'd you get him to change his mind?" Tony asked, getting slowly to his feet.
"I told him I had already taken a chest x-ray," Jimmy said, keeping his hands at his sides even though the doctor in him wanted to reach out and steady his decidedly unsteady patient. But Jimmy knew his friend wouldn't be comfortable accepting the help. "I don't think he believed me until I told him you have a spot in your left lung that looks vaguely like a bunny."
Tony grinned. "Can't make that stuff up," he said, watching Palmer watch him as he headed to the door.
"You forgetting something?" Palmer asked, grabbing Tony's arm and pointing him toward the hospital's pharmacy. "Come on. Before I change my mind and make you stay here."
Tony lay awake in his blissfully warm, dry bed later that night, but he found himself unable to sleep despite the painkillers Jimmy had forced him to take. He rolled his eyes even now, just thinking about how Palmer had made him open his mouth, checking under his tongue like Tony was a mental patient.
He smiled faintly at the snore he heard coming from the direction of his couch, thinking about how Jimmy had plopped down onto it earlier and refused to leave.
"In case you forgot, I still don't have a car and we both need to get to work in the morning," Jimmy had said, cocking his head and adopting a mock-sad expression. "I'm beginning to think I may never see ol' Bessie again."
Tony had caved, immensely grateful Palmer wasn't insisting he take any time off because of his minor injury—or his illness. He had a feeling Ducky would have made him stay at the hospital and Tony would have found himself being escorted out by security had he tried to sneak into work. (He decided to make Ziva handle all conversations with the ME—make her really earn that "Liaison Officer" title.) It was nice that Jimmy just seemed to understand Tony's aversion to coddling. But he had to admit—if only to himself—that it was also nice to know that if he ended up coughing his lungs out that night, unable to breathe through the pain and pressure, he had a medical student sleeping on his sofa.
He rolled over with a slight groan, resting his injured hand on the pillow beside his head and telling himself he was just not looking forward to his meeting with the director in the morning. He had called Jenny on his way home from the hospital to give her an update on the case, but she had cut him off and told him to get some rest and that they could talk in the morning.
Tony sighed and forced his eyes shut, wondering how much trouble he was in for being involved in a shootout at a national monument. Sure, he hadn't started the shootout, but there was still a chunk missing from the great state of Nevada.
He fell asleep wondering what Gibbs would have said to Jenny in that meeting.
He woke up a few hours later to the sound of a shootout on his TV.
Tony sat up slowly, his foggy brain struggling to remember where he had picked up a date more interested in watching "The Bourne Identity" than being in his bed at four in the morning. He knew his giant TV with its surround-sound system was pretty amazing, but he also knew he had other, well, assets that were just as fantastic.
And then he remembered it was not Monica from the gym or Naomi from down the hall that he was shacking up with.
It was Palmer from autopsy.
Tony hauled himself upright, pausing to sit on the side of the bed and wait for the dizziness to clear. He was exhausted and knew he could just throw a pillow over his head and ignore the faint sounds coming from the living room. But he also figured he knew the reason Jimmy was watching that particular movie instead of snoring away on his couch.
So Tony got up, relieved to find his legs steady underneath him as he made his way into the other room, purposely giving a little cough just before he crossed the threshold.
Jimmy jumped anyway, popping to his feet and staring at Tony with wide eyes. "Um, Tony, I'm so sorry," he stammered, gulping in a deep breath. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
Tony shrugged. "You didn't. I woke myself up," he said, studying the assistant's face and having no trouble finding evidence of Jimmy's inner strife, "when I rolled over on this." He held up his hand and put on his best pitifully pained expression.
Jimmy's frown turned thoughtful as he waved his patient forward, and Tony sat beside him, patiently letting Palmer look over the hand that barely even hurt.
Palmer replaced the dressing, taking care not to touch the wound or the clean bandages. "The stitches all look fine," he said, releasing Tony's wrist with a wince of sympathy. "It probably just hurt like hell."
"Thanks, Gremlin," Tony said, nodding and failing miserably at stifling a yawn.
Jimmy gave him a sheepish look. "I'll turn the TV down," he said quietly.
But Tony just grabbed the remote and nudged the volume up a notch. "Nah, this is the best part," he said, watching Matt Damon pull some rather impressive ninja moves on the screen. "And Franka Potente is a total fox. You ever seen 'Run Lola Run'?"
Jimmy shook his head in the negative and smiled a little at Tony's mock-shocked expression.
"Palmer, you don't know what you're missing," Tony said, settling deeper into the couch and propping his bare feet on his coffee table. "She had this bright, bright red hair—not like the little highlight thingies she has in this one. And she spent that entire movie running all over some German town, trying to get money together so she could save her dumbass boyfriend's dumb ass. And she looked damned good doing it. Man, she's hot."
Palmer looked up from his knotted hands to the screen and then to Tony. "I don't know, I think Julia Stiles might be hotter."
Tony made a rude noise and covered his face with his good hand. "I'm just going to pretend you didn't say that, Palmer. I'd hate to have to kick you out at four in the morning."
Jimmy smiled again, relaxing a little more as he was drawn into the conversation. "Maybe it's the accent that throws me off," he ventured, watching Tony wince as he cradled his hand against his chest. Jimmy pushed a pillow in his direction and gave Tony a stern look, smiling again when the agent obeyed and propped up his hand.
"Nope," Tony disagreed. "I love a woman with an accent."
A big grin spread across Jimmy's face but he never got the words out.
"Shut your piehole, Palmer," he said good-naturedly. "There's nothing going on between me and Ziva."
"Okay," Jimmy said lightly, sneaking a sideways glance at his friend. "But I heard you two put on quite a show when you were undercover together."
"Oh yeah," Tony said, deadpan, "I was so good at dinner even I thought I was left-handed."
Jimmy laughed, feeling more of his tension draining away. "Oh come on," he said. "You spent the night in the same bed with her. What was it like sleeping next to Ziva?"
"I wouldn't know. She snored all night long." Tony stopped, giving Palmer a glare. "Don't even think about telling her I'm telling you any of this."
"Any of what?" Jimmy asked, his eyes lighting up mischievously. "Are you saying there's more to tell?"
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Whoa, there, Gremlin. Are you interrogating me?"
"Depends," Jimmy replied, "on if you'll actually tell me anything. You know, there is the guy code to consider here."
"Yeah?" Tony said with a snort. "There's also the partner code to consider—especially when said partner was trained as a Mossad assassin. Sorry, Palminator, but she scares me more than you do."
Jimmy nodded with a slight grimace. "Yeah," he agreed. "She could probably kill you with a spork."
Tony laughed and then they lapsed into silence, watching the rest of the movie without conversation until the credits started to roll. Jimmy looked over and found Tony's eyes closed, and he wondered if he should wake him or just let him sleep on the comfortable couch.
"Need something?" Tony asked, his eyes still closed.
Jimmy once again found his mouth moving before he could stop the words. "Can I ask you something?"
Tony opened his eyes and turned his head without lifting it from the black leather cushion. "As long as it doesn't involve what Ziva looks like naked."
The half-smile quickly faded from Jimmy's face. "Does it bother you?" he blurted before he lost his nerve.
"Does what bother me?" Tony asked, even though he was quite sure he knew what was bothering his friend.
Palmer shook his head. "Someone was shooting at you tonight," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. He took a deep breath and looked Tony in the eyes. "That guy could have shot you in the head and you don't seem at all freaked out by that."
Tony took a moment to consider his words, reminding himself that this was an ME's assistant he was talking to, not a probie. "Well, A, he didn't shoot me in the head," he said carefully, "and two, if I freaked out every time someone shot at me, I'd end up in the loony bin."
Jimmy was quiet, his thoughts obviously not in the present, and Tony tried again.
"I'm not saying you get used to it," he said, struggling to find the right words. "It's more like you get used to the idea of it. You just accept that it's a possibility and try not to worry about it."
"I…" Jimmy started, but then he stopped, flicking a grateful look at Tony when he stayed silent and let him gather his thoughts. "So it's taken you a while to get used to it? You weren't always this… calm about it?"
"I barely remember the first time I got shot at because I was so scared," Tony said honestly. "But I do remember my partner telling me it was only natural to be afraid." Tony laughed. "Like he said, bullet wounds hurt."
Jimmy didn't respond, but his frown was a little less tight.
"And a lot of it depends on the situation," Tony continued, unwilling to leave Palmer alone with his morbid thoughts just yet. He just hoped he wouldn't say the wrong thing. "I thought I was pretty well used to the idea of people trying to kill me by the time I started working here at NCIS. Right up until this lunatic got the drop on me in some filthy alley and put a gun to my head."
Palmer's eyes went wide, but he didn't interrupt.
"It was about a week after I started, and Gibbs put a bullet through the guy's head and made a crack about not being sure if he liked me yet—but wanting me to stick around long enough for him to find out either way." Tony winced at the memory. "And then he pulled out his best gunny and reamed me for letting the suspect get behind me."
"That wasn't very nice," Jimmy said, again wondering why Tony was always so eager to please a man who seemed incapable of pleasing.
"Maybe not," Tony said, shrugging. "But it was what I needed to hear. I was pretty shaken, and having an angry Gibbs screaming into my face was a good distraction. Not to mention I did screw up. But Gibbs was actually kind of nice to me the rest of the day, and he even let me go home before finishing my report. Of course, he said it was because he had enough trouble reading my writing when I wasn't shaking like a damned leaf, but he knew I was feeling pretty wrung out. Just as I was headed for the elevator, he told me to get a good night's sleep—because there was a chance we'd be doing it all over again tomorrow."
Jimmy took a slow breath. "Comforting," he said wryly.
"It kinda was," Tony said. "It was a reminder I was still alive to come back at it the next day."
"Yeah," Jimmy said after a moment, thinking about his own near-death experience. "You're right."
Tony, skilled interrogator that he was, knew Palmer was holding something back that he really wanted to get out. "Your turn," he said. "What's the scariest situation you've ever been in?"
Jimmy opened his mouth, but Tony smiled and said, "And do not give me some line about dropping corpses."
Jimmy smiled but it melted away. "Aren't you tired?"
The clock glowed 5:21, and Tony nodded. "Yep. But I'm also curious. Spill, Palmer." He sensed the lingering hesitation and so pulled out the big guns. "I really want you to tell me."
"It was all my mother's fault," Jimmy said, huffing a sigh and stubbornly shutting his mouth again.
"Isn't it always?" Tony said.
The joke broke through the last of Palmer's barriers and he began speaking quietly, staring down at his hands.
"She forgot to buy milk. I went to the convenience store near our apartment building. Everything was fine until I started walking toward the register." Jimmy continued, hoping his short declarative sentences would erase the tinge of fear that still darkened his voice. "I watched this guy shoot the cashier just as two cops walk in, probably on a break or something. The bullet hit him high in the chest and he fell to the floor, just as the cops pulled their guns. I didn't even think about it. I just went around the counter and started putting pressure on the wound. It was right when I first started medical school and I felt kind of important. But the robber was yelling and the cops were yelling and then it got really quiet. I looked up…"
When Jimmy looked up from his clenched fists a minute later, he found Tony extending a beer bottle toward him. He took it with a nod of thanks and drained half of it in one long gulp.
"I looked up right into the barrel of the gun this crazy guy was pointing at me. He was telling me to get away from the cashier." Jimmy took another drink from the bottle while Tony wondered what the cops were doing at that point in the action. But he didn't ask. He just let Jimmy talk. "I refused. I knew it was possible he could have just shot me, but I also knew the cashier would die if I didn't stop the bleeding. I looked up at his face—it's really hard to look away from a gun pointed at you, you know?—and I said, 'Either shoot me or get the hell out of my way.' "
Tony smiled. "I knew I liked you for a reason, Palmer."
Jimmy's return grin was slightly shaky. "After the cops shot the crazy guy and the medics took the cashier away, I just stood there, wondering what to do next. The cop who took my statement told me it was the dumbest brave thing he'd ever seen."
"Got that right, Palmer," Tony said, his expression going stern. "You pull something like that on my team and I'll kick your ass from here to Sunday."
Jimmy looked up from the bottle, blinking slowly. "You would have let the guy bleed to death?"
Tony gave him a look. "Didn't say that. I bet you saved that guy's life."
Jimmy nodded. "He sent me a Christmas card last year." He bit his lip for moment before finishing off the beer. "What now?" he asked. "After all this sharing we just did?"
"Sleep," Tony said, standing with a yawn. "Then never speak of it again, per Man Code chapter ten, section B, line D." He looked back at Jimmy, who was rolling his eyes at him as he settled in to catch at least an hour's rest. "And then we get up and hope we won't be doing it all over again tomorrow."
