Walking out on a bleeding patient hadn't been easy on Palmer, but he was confident in his judgment that it was more oozing than actual bleeding. And Tony had been alert and talking, with only traces of pain in his voice.

Then again, Jimmy thought, the agent could probably be spurting fountains from a severed artery and still belt out tunes from "Singing in the Rain."

Palmer walked up to Gibbs' front door, carrying several bags and wondering if it was odd that he felt lucky that Tony had shot him. Sure, the graze burned like blazes at times, but Jimmy knew the alternative was likely death—whether his or Tony's he wasn't sure, but neither option was a good one.

Just the thought of Jansen pressing that gun to his head sent a shiver down his spine, but Jimmy tried to shrug it off. He wasn't about to let a bad situation color his view of the world. He knew there were good people and there were bad people, and Jimmy figured that as long as he stayed on the side of good, he was doing his part to balance it all out.

Sure, he wanted to become a doctor so he could help people, but he also liked the idea that he could help fix things, to help right wrongs. It was what drew him to the assistant position at NCIS, that desire to help make things right. He couldn't help the victims he worked on with Dr. Mallard, but at least he could help find clues to solve their murders and catch the people responsible.

Jimmy walked through the living room and felt a flash of panic at the sight of the empty couch. He hoped like hell he hadn't made a mistake in being so short with Tony before he left for the store; Jimmy had just wanted the stubborn agent to realize that he wasn't going to back down from whatever fight Tony wanted to throw at him. Palmer wasn't the epitome of toughness, but he wasn't the total pushover many people took him for, either.

He dropped the bags on the floor and scanned around, hoping for some clue of where Tony might have run off to, and his heart leapt up into his throat when he saw the body crumpled on the floor in the hall.

Cursing himself for trusting his fledgling medical judgment, Palmer ran to Tony's side, his fingers going immediately for his neck to check for a pulse while his eyes zeroed in on the blood on the back of his shirt. The splotch was larger than it had been before, but not by an alarming amount.

"I'm alive," came Tony's weak voice.

"You'll have to pardon me if I don't take your word for it," Palmer said, keeping his fingers on Tony's pulse and shifting his gaze to his watch.

"Dead people don't really talk," Tony said, his eyes still closed and his breathing labored. "Ducky lies."

Jimmy couldn't help smiling, but he ignored his patient as he counted beats, not moving his fingers until he was certain Tony's heart rate was within safe limits. He flicked a glance into the bathroom and said, "You could have told me you had to go before I left."

"You could have given me a chance to speak before you ran out the door."

Jimmy winced. But then he countered, "You could have waited for me to get back."

"Doubtful," Tony said, finally opening his eyes. "I don't know if Gibbs is ever coming back, but I do know that pissing on his couch is a bad, bad idea."

Jimmy laughed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll give you that," he said, noting that Tony had made no move to get up. Jimmy softened his tone and asked, "So what happened?"

"I got up, made it this far," Tony said. He was apparently following Jimmy's eyes and he smiled. "I made it, Gremlin, so stop worrying that I wet my pants. Seriously, you juggle organs for a living and you're squeamish about urine?"

"I am not," Jimmy protested, wondering how Tony could banter with him while looking like he was going to puke. "And Dr. Mallard would have my head if I started performing circus acts with body parts. Stop trying to distract me."

Tony's smile faded. "I was headed back to the couch and I coughed," he said, a fine shiver running through his half-curled body. His tone turned disgusted. "I freakin' coughed and it was like getting hit by a train. From a freakin' cough."

"I, uh, think it might have been more the gunshot wounds, Tony. Maybe?" Jimmy noticed DiNozzo seemed to be actually considering that and it made him wonder just how hellish having the plague must have been. "Did you bring anything up with it?"

"What?" Tony asked, blinking in confusion.

"Your chest x-rays were quite clear considering how bad your lungs were just a few days ago. The tech commented on your 'cold'—rather than asking who switched your films with a drowning victim's," Jimmy said, watching Tony's face carefully. "Anything you want to tell me?"

Tony shifted uncomfortably. "No. You want to help me up or continue interrogating me?"

Palmer looked down at Tony's pinched face and asked, "Do you really want to move?"

DiNozzo didn't respond, but Jimmy knew the answer. He got up and went to the couch, grabbing the pillow and blanket, and returned to the hall, studying his friend as he helped him get relatively comfortable without having to move much. Jimmy settled on the floor across from him, his back against the fading paint on the wall. He wanted to tend to Tony's wounds, but he also knew there was more to be gained by not fussing than by stopping the minor bleeding.

He winced, thinking about what his professors might say to that.

But then he shrugged.

Tony was no average patient.

Jimmy waited for Tony's breath to stop hitching before asking, "So how long did you hide your illness from us?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Tony said, his eyes closed again.

Palmer knew the closed eyes were the result of pain and exhaustion—not a way to hiding lying eyes. DiNozzo didn't need that tool; he was easily the best liar Jimmy had ever met. But in this case, Jimmy's medical training trumped Tony's masks.

"I told you the other day that you don't accumulate that amount of fluid in one afternoon in a downpour," Palmer said, his tone calm. "Not unless you were snorting the rain."

He watched Tony's mouth quirk upward slightly before he winced, his arm tightening against his injured side. "I started feeling like shit about two weeks ago," Tony admitted, his eyes opening briefly before clamping shut again. "I took a cough suppressant to keep from hacking up a lung and making everyone worry. It would have been a distraction the team didn't need."

Jimmy's jaw dropped. "Are you insane?" he asked, his voice rising to an embarrassing squeak. He took a breath and wasn't surprised when the agent didn't respond. "Seriously, Tony, do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to take a cough suppressant with fluid in your lungs? You needed an expectorant, to help you clear the crap out—not a suppressant that kept it all in."

DiNozzo lifted the shoulder he wasn't lying on.

Palmer shook his head, trying to come up with a way to get through to his friend. "Hell, Tony, if the thought of killing yourself doesn't scare you, think about it this way: You probably made yourself sick for weeks, instead of letting your body do its job and feeling better in a few days."

Tony opened his eyes. "Huh. Really? Good to know," he said, as if picking up a tip on how to get bubble gum off a shoe.

Relieved that Tony had apparently listened to something vaguely resembling medical advice, Jimmy checked his watch and pulled a pill bottle out of a bag he had brought over with the blanket. He would have preferred the syringes with the heavy-duty stuff, considering the pain etched on Tony's bone-white face, but the Percocet would have to do.

He fished a bottle of water out of the bag and handed it over along with two pills. "Take these," he said, nudging Tony's hand when he didn't immediately open his eyes.

"And call you in the morning?" Tony joked, eyeing the offering warily.

Jimmy sighed, thinking, So much for making progress. "Can you honestly tell me you don't want them?" he asked, honestly wanting to know.

Tony raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm lying in a hallway, Palmer, trying not to puke, scream and/or cry. Of course I want them." He lifted his head and winced. "It's just going to suck sitting up enough not to choke myself doing it."

Palmer nodded, sliding a hand under Tony's neck and helping him maneuver upright enough to swallow without gagging. Tony eased back down with a groan, and Jimmy wondered if he should feel honored—or if the stubborn agent just hadn't been able to hold it in.

They sat quietly for a while, Tony resting and Palmer looking into the half-bath and wondering why the trim was pink. He figured it was to match the fading, peeling seashell wallpaper, but he couldn't figure out why Gibbs would leave it. The man struck Jimmy as the type to keep a neat, well-maintained house, and the rest of the rooms fit that bill completely. Maybe there was a story behind the wallpaper, Jimmy mused, remembering again that Gibbs had had a wife and child. But seeing it—and seeing its deterioration—would be enough for Jimmy to want to be rid of it.

Or maybe that's why he leaves it, Jimmy thought, unsure if he himself could continue to live in this house if he were in Gibbs' shoes.

"How's your leg, Palmster?" Tony asked, jarring Jimmy from his thoughts.

He took the nickname and the relaxing of Tony's features as evidence that the painkillers were working, and he smiled. "It's fine. Why?" he asked, looking at his pant leg to make sure he wasn't bleeding while wondering if Tony was going to be pliable enough to tolerate getting his own wounds checked.

"I shot you, Jimmy," Tony said, opening his eyes and rolling them up to land on the assistant's face. "I'm not going to keep reminding you if you keep forgetting. Even if it's probably better for our relationship if you keep forgetting. But don't. Because you shouldn't."

Jimmy frowned. "Why would I want to forget that you saved my life?"

"Because I shot you," Tony said, exasperated. "What did I just say?"

"It's fine," Jimmy said, honestly. "It really doesn't hurt as much as you would think removing layers of flesh would hurt."

Tony winced. "Palmer, do not make me puke right now."

"Sorry," he said, watching Tony shift slightly without any evidence of pain. "Can I take a look at your side now?"

"It's fine," Tony said, uncurling a bit more.

"Just because the painkillers are working doesn't mean it's not still bleeding," Palmer said, getting up to kneel beside his ornery patient. "Please?"

"I suppose," Tony said, suddenly agreeable. Jimmy figured that had something to do with the current lack of agony. "What was that stuff, anyway? It's niiiiiiiice."

"Percocet," Jimmy said, lifting the blanket off Tony's shoulder and wondering if the agent even noticed.

"Ah, Vitamin P," Tony said, nodding. "Does a body good."

Jimmy grinned—but only for a moment. The amount of blood soaking the bandage taped to Tony's belly was worrisome, and Jimmy told him to stay put while he was going to wash his hands.

"Nah," Tony said, waving a hand—still tinged with blood, Jimmy noted. "I thought I'd go run a marathon or somethin'. But I'll be right back. I'll run really fast."

"I think you might be insane, Tony."

"I know I might be," Tony said. He paused. "Oh, wait…"

Jimmy got up and took the bag to the kitchen, pulling out antibacterial soap and scrubbing his hands. He debated the cleanliness of the floor versus making Tony move—until he returned to the hall and found Tony staring up at him and grinning, obviously feeling no pain.

"I won."

Jimmy had to think for a minute. "The marathon?"

Tony nodded. "Yep."

"Were you the only one running?" Jimmy asked, stifling several other questions because he wasn't sure if he really wanted unfettered answers from Tony.

Tony nodded. "Yep."

Jimmy laughed and held out his hands. "Go slow," he warned. "Just because the medication is masking the pain doesn't mean you can't still do damage."

"Aye-aye, Dr. Palmer," Tony said, nodding. "Dr. Palmer. I like that. It should be the name of a TV show."

Palmer helped Tony sit up, putting a hand on his shoulder when he tried to stand up too quickly. "Hold on," he said, glad Tony was feeling better but not wanting him to overdo it. "If you stand up too fast, you'll fall over."

"Okay," Tony agreed.

Jimmy wanted to ask for some ID.

"I ran the Boston marathon once," Tony said, sitting patiently, his eyes roaming the patterns of the ugly wallpaper in the hall.

"Yeah? How'd you do?"

"Not too bad. Middle of the pack, kinda," he said, frowning. But then he shrugged and smiled at Jimmy. "No way I could keep up with the Jamaicans and Ethiopians and all those really, really fast guys. I mean, really, when your daily commute quite possibly involves outrunning a cheetah, you probably have to be really, really fast."

"I bet," Jimmy agreed, distracted by the blood on Tony's shirt. "Come on. Think you can make it to the table?"

Tony scoffed. "I made it from the couch to here just fine," he said.

Jimmy decided it was probably unwise to mention that was as far as he had made it.

Instead, he took Tony by the wrists and pulled him up to his feet. It took a bit more effort than Jimmy had planned, and he realized it shouldn't be such a surprise considering that Tony was a big guy. But he rarely used his size to intimidate, and his happy-go-lucky personality also tended to distract from the fact that he was highly trained federal agent who knew how to handle himself. "Dangerous" was one of the last ways Jimmy would have described his friend a week ago, but the scene in the evidence lockup had forever changed his perception, and Palmer would never forget Tony's deadly calm steadiness in that moment when both of their lives were at risk.

Jimmy eased Tony into a chair at the dining room table, a fine shudder running down the assistant's spine as he remembered the feeling of that gun pressed against his head, the coldness in Jansen's eyes as he barked orders and threatened his life. His chest tightened at the remembered sounds of the shots, first Jansen's, then Tony's—and the sight of the agent dropping to his knees, the image of that neat hole in Tony's belly where Jansen's bullet had punched through flesh and muscle.

Suddenly, something that had been nagging at Palmer ever since the gunfight in the lockup burst to the forefront of his mind, his once-muddy thoughts now crystal clear. He couldn't stop his mouth any more than he could stop the pounding of his racing heart.

"Goddamn, DiNozzo," Palmer said, his tone incredulous bordering on angry. "What the hell were you thinking?"