Tony managed to sit up without screaming.

Barely.

The pain was unreal. It was all-encompassing and mind-numbing and left him shaking, gasping for every breath as he used his arms to crawl his way up the rail, towing himself upright inch by agonizing inch.

But he wasn't about to let the pain stop him.

He sat there, legs dangling over the side of the hospital bed, and he simply breathed. He wasn't sure he was capable of anything else, thanks to the pain tearing through his belly.

But then it eased.

As he knew it would.

Tony was no stranger to pain, and he had once lain on a football field, clutching a ruined knee and waiting in agony for the merciful moment when the pain would subside—because it had to ease at some point. Or maybe the mind just learned to deal with it better as time went on. He didn't care which—as long as he could concentrate on moving instead focusing solely on breathing without screaming.

He looked down at the IV in the back of his hand and carefully pulled the needle out, making sure to remove it by easing it out straight so it didn't break. But his hands were shaking and the process wasn't as smooth as he planned, but the slight sting was welcome because it was something to think about other than the waves of nausea rolling over him like the breaking tide.

But his body soon became acclimated to being upright, and the feeling subsided enough for him to stand, even if his legs were trembling beneath him. He looked around for the obligatory bag holding the things he had been brought in with, and he winced, realizing no one would have saved the blood-soaked shirt Jimmy had used to put pressure on his wound.

He almost gave up then, knowing there was no way he could walk out of a hospital wearing one of their hideous gowns, but then he spotted a familiar bag on the floor. Tony silently thanked whomever had grabbed his go-bag from the trunk of his car, likely in anticipation of his being released the next day, and he nudged it with his foot closer to the bed. He wasn't dumb enough to try to pick it up, but he needed to move away from the door.

He didn't want Roger walking by and seeing his patient about to escape. Tony figured he could outrun the big guy on a good day. But with a bullet wound and aching lungs? Not so much.

He knew bending down to grab the jeans and button-down shirt was going to be excruciating, so he did it quickly and kept his mouth clamped shut to keep from moaning when the pain stabbed through him as he knew it would. He straightened, put his hand on the bed to steady himself, and then reached back with a wince to untie the ugly gown. He stepped into his pants, trying to get this over quickly—before he had time to really process how much it goddamn hurt—but he had to stop once he got them buttoned, his bare chest heaving with the effort of simply getting half-dressed.

Even though he told himself not to, he couldn't help looking down to survey the damage. He had a massive bruise splattered dead-center over his chest, and he didn't even let himself think about how dead he would be if he hadn't grabbed that vest before running down to the evidence lockup. His eyes moved down to the gauze taped to his belly, the area beneath slightly swollen with bruising peeking out around the edges of the bandage. He figured his back was in the same shape as his fingers found a similar-size bandage there.

And then he ignored the wounds and concentrated on getting his shirt on and buttoned correctly. He hoped no one would stop him on his way out, knew escape was much more likely now that he was dressed normally, and could only hope that no one who might see him leaving the room would realize he was the patient who was supposed to be resting inside.

He figured his badge would take care of anyone else.

Tony found that badge, and his watch, wallet and cell phone, in the top drawer of the small dresser, and he took everything but the phone, not wanting McGee and his magic fingers to find him. He knew the team would try to drag him back to the hospital, but it was unnecessary. The doctor in the ER had told him they were admitting him only for observation and that he would be healed up in no time if he took proper care of the wound. He planned on doing just that, and also making all of his follow-up appointments as scheduled. Tony was stubborn as all hell—but he wasn't a moron.

He thought briefly about scribbling a note to his team not to worry about him, but he couldn't find a pen or paper. No one had been sitting at his bedside with a crossword puzzle book this time.

He didn't waste time or energy lurking around the door and instead stepped confidently out into the hall, deserted thanks to the early hour—nearly 0500, according to his watch. He carefully kept his left arm away from his body even though he wanted to press it against his injured side, and he even gave the nurse at the station a good imitation of his usual charming smile, hoping to distract the pretty young woman enough to make her forget that it was odd for nonmedical personnel to be walking the halls this early in the morning.

She smiled back, her eyes brightening as they landed on his handsome face.

Tony wanted to puke.

But it wasn't her fault.

So he kept walking, glad the elevator doors opened immediately, and he stepped inside, breathing a sigh of relief as it took him down to the lobby. He kicked himself for forgetting to call a cab and resigned himself to walking the short distance to the Metro station a couple of blocks away.

Even that seemed like a million miles, though, considering the searing pain in his side that was getting worse with every step. But Tony just nodded to the security guard as he exited the hospital, determined to get to the station and grab a seat on what would likely be a sparsely populated early morning train back to the District. From there he could get a cab to his final destination.

Collapsing onto the bench outside the hospital was enticing, but he knew he had to keep moving. He wondered if this desperate need to run was what the dirtbags he chased for a living felt when his team was on the hunt.

He made it to the station just in time to catch the first train out, and he had just eased himself gratefully into a seat when it started to move, the slight rocking of the car and the stretching of damaged muscle involved in sitting reawakening his nausea. He wrapped his arm around his side, supporting the injured area while trying not to put too much pressure on the wounds, and simply breathed through the pain and dizziness. He could feel the path the bullet had gouged through his body as if it were a steel rod, white-hot and embedded inside him, and a small part of him—the part of his brain that wasn't awash in agony—wondered if he would be able to walk to a cab.

But he would.

Because he had to, because there was no one to help him, and most importantly, because giving in to the pain was unacceptable.

Tony opened his eyes to see where he was—and how close he was to the station nearest his destination—and he found an elderly man watching him with concern.

"Are you all right, son?"

Tony allowed the flinch—because he knew the man would misinterpret it as physical pain. "I'm fine, sir," he said, trying not to gag on that last part, the word reminding him of his father. But Tony never let bad memories preclude manners.

The man nodded slowly, his eyes sharp and appraising. "Bullet wound?"

Tony raised an eyebrow, mystified for a moment before following the man's eyes downward. He realized he had clipped his badge on the pocket of his jeans out of habit instead of shoving it inside, and he also still had the hospital bracelet around his wrist because his knife hadn't been in the bag. He felt a little flash of panic, hoping the knife—a gift from Gibbs—wasn't lost. Tony wasn't a big fan of rules in general, but he really liked Rule 9, not only because it had gotten him out of several jams but because it gave him an excuse to carry his most cherished possession with him at all times.

Still, it was interesting that the man had made the leap from badge and bracelet to bullet wound.

"I was Metro PD for thirty-five years. Had a little incident my second week on the job," the man said, lifting his shirt and showing a puckered old scar. "I know exactly how bad getting gut-shot hurts."

He watched Tony's eyes flick to the doors as the train slid to a stop, and the man stood, offering his arm like a father to a bride. "Come on, kid. I'll walk you home. My name's Charlie."

Tony just stared, shocked beyond words and feeling overwhelmed by this stranger's kindness.

"Ah, wait," Charlie said, turning to face Tony and extending both hands. "This'll hurt you less. Be easier on the belly."

Tony looked up into the man's kind eyes and decided to take the help being offered. He was tired and in pain, and he still had a long way to go, so he reached out and took Charlie's weathered hands, extremely grateful he could use the muscles in his arms to pull himself up rather than put the strain on his injured abdomen. Charlie offered his left arm, letting the agent decide how much help he needed to make it off the train and also allowing Tony to tuck his own left arm against his throbbing side.

They stepped around a woman talking on a cell phone, and Tony suddenly realized he couldn't use his to call a cab since he had left it at the hospital. He turned to Charlie, smiling faintly despite his pain when he saw the phone in the retired cop's hand. Tony gave him a quizzical look as he made the quick phone call requesting a cab at their current station.

Charlie clicked the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket. "What?" he asked, smiling and leading Tony to a bench to wait. "You're in no shape to drive even if you did have a car around here—which you don't, because you would have headed the other way when we got off the train."

"How did you know I don't live around here?" Tony asked.

Charlie grinned back at him. "You bought a ticket at the vending machine and had to look at a map before getting on the train."

"Maybe I usually drive," Tony said, leaning heavily on Charlie but enjoying the conversation.

"Maybe," Charlie said, "but you would have stopped me before I told the dispatcher where I needed the cab."

"Oh. Yeah, good point," Tony said, nodding. He glanced at Charlie. "Detective?" he ventured, eyeing the bench and not looking forward to bending his aching body down onto it.

"Yes, siree," Charlie said, grinning and holding out his hands again, his eyes patient as he watched Tony reluctantly take them and allow himself to be lowered into a sitting position. Charlie was probably in his seventies, but he certainly wasn't frail, and Tony was glad for the strength in the man's hands as they eased him onto the bench.

Tony closed his eyes and barely kept himself from gasping in pain as he sat, the bench hard against the wound in his back.

Charlie settled in beside him, his knee bumping gently against Tony's. "Go on," he said, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile. "Say it. I won't be offended."

Ignoring the fire in his side to focus on the conversation, Tony asked, "Say what?"

Charlie gave a chuckle. "Oh, I don't know, something like, 'Shit that hurts,' maybe?"

Tony found a tired grin and repeated, "Shit that hurts."

"Attaboy," Charlie said, his eyes scanning the light traffic on the street and fortunately missing Tony's flinch.

But Tony just added that painful reminder of Gibbs' rare words of praise to the pile of agony he was buried in and asked, "So what's it like, being retired?"

"Boring," Charlie answered immediately, drawing another smile from Tony. "My lovely wife died about a year ago, and the kids are all grown up with their own busy lives, their own busy kids. My youngest grandson died in a car accident a few months back, hit by a drunk driver."

"I'm sorry," Tony said sincerely, feeling ashamed of being consumed by his own physical pain. At least his body would heal from the traumas inflicted on him. Charlie's wounds—like Gibbs', Tony realized—would leave much more damage than physical scars.

"Thank you," Charlie said. He looked up into the slowly brightening sky and smiled. "I'm taking a trip with a friend of mine from the force next week, though. Gotta enjoy life while you still got it to live, you know?"

Tony nodded, finding himself wondering if Gibbs was enjoying his new life in Mexico. He felt another jolt of shame for judging his boss for running away from pain; Tony knew it made him a complete hypocrite, considering how many of his own moves had been attempts at escape.

"Where are you going?"

"Italy," Charlie answered, his smile growing wider.

"Buon viaggio," Tony said. He saw Charlie raise an eyebrow, and Tony shook his head, realizing he hadn't introduced himself. "I'm sorry, I'm Anthony DiNozzo," he said, reaching out to shake hands.

"Charlie Wells. And you're also bleeding, Anthony." The old man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and before the agent could protest had it pressed against the back of Tony's right hand, bleeding lightly from where he had pulled the IV needle out with his less-than-steady hands. "I'm guessing you didn't get released from the hospital, huh?"

Tony shook his head slowly. "I'm not running from the cops."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I kinda figured you weren't. Just hate hospitals?" he asked, his eyes sympathetic.

Tony nodded, looking down at the blood on the white cloth in Charlie's hand. He winced. "That's probably not going to come out."

"Keep it," Charlie said with a shrug as he released Tony's hand. "I got plenty more. So buon viaggio, that like the Italian version of bon voyage?"

"Yep," Tony said. "And I do hope you enjoy your trip. It's a beautiful country."

"I sure will, and I'd love to hear more, but it looks like that's your ride," he said, watching a cab turn the corner. "You got someone on the other end who can give you a hand?"

Tony looked up at Charlie's kind face as the man held out his hands again, ready to pull him to his feet. "I'm headed to a friend's house," Tony said, groaning involuntarily as renewed pain attacked with a vengeance, spiking through his side with such intensity that it made him want to throw up. He twisted slightly as he hunched over, his right hand on his belly and his left on his back, and he felt Charlie take him gently by elbow, more letting him know he was there than anything.

"Thanks, Charlie," Tony managed after a moment, prying his eyes open and starting toward the waiting cab.

The old man stayed close by his side, letting Tony lean on him as they walked through the sparse morning crowd. Charlie lowered him carefully into the car, handed over a card with his name and number, and said, "You ever need anything, Anthony, you give me a call, okay?"

Tony smiled genuinely. "Thank you, Charlie, for everything."

Charlie moved to close the door but stopped, leaning down and looking Tony in the eyes. "Don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it, kid. That badge on your hip means you always have a family. No matter what."

Tony could only nod, the sudden lump in his throat threatening to choke him. Charlie closed the door and tapped the roof, and the driver moved away from the curb.

"Where to, sir?"

Tony thought about Charlie's words and wished with everything in him that they could be true.

But Charlie was wrong.

And Tony was a walking example of what was wrong with his theory—on both sides of the coin, he realized, remembering with a jolt that he himself had done the leaving, dropping all contact with his partner Danny in Baltimore after that whole mess.

But none of that changed Tony's answer to the cabbie's question.

He took a deep breath, ignored the pain that came with it, and recited the address.