But now the current's only pulling me down
It's getting harder to breathe
It won't be too long and I'll be going under
Can you save me from this?

'Cause it's not my time, I'm not going
There's a fear in me and it's not showing
This could be the end of me
And everything I know, oh, but I won't go

-Three Doors Down, "It's Not My Time"


Leroy Jethro Gibbs sat, head resting in his hands, and tried to figure out how things went to hell so fast.

He was the only one in the ICU waiting area, save for an elderly woman who, judging by the empty styrofoam coffee cups scattered around her, had been there for quite awhile. He'd nodded to her when he first arrived, but per the unspoken rules of the ICU, neither spoke, leaving the other alone to their silent worries.

For Gibbs, being relegated to the waiting room was not helping matters; yet he stayed, if not willingly, at least with minimal protest. They had to get Tony stable and settled and Gibbs had enough sense to recognize that he would just be in the way. After a few words that made it quite clear he was to be informed the second Tony could have someone with him, he backed off and let them work. He called Ducky, debated calling the rest of the team and ultimately decided not to worry them until he had more information, then found a spot to camp out on of the faded vinyl chairs.

How the hell did this happen? Gibbs thought back, searching for any warning signs he may have missed. All he could see was the fever; it had been relatively high, and no one on the ward had taken it lightly, but there hadn't seemed to be any reason to panic. Tony had fallen asleep and stayed that way, and between Tylenol and cool water they'd gotten it down nearly a full degree before the evening shift changed to night. Things had seemed to be under control.

Until they weren't anymore.

"Boss...I can't...breathe..."

The words would be echoing through his head for days. Gibbs was not a man given to panic, but the sight of Tony struggling for air sent a jolt of fear through his gut. He forced himself to stay calm; Tony would be taking his cues from him, which meant it was Gibbs' job to leave no question that everything would be okay.

"Yes, you can, Tony," he said firmly. He heard people enter the room, and breathed an inward sigh of relief. "Listen to me. You listening?" Tony nodded. "You can breathe. In...out...slowly now...in...out..." His voice was low, intense, almost hypnotic. Tony kept his eyes fixed on Gibbs and did as he was told. Shallow, ragged breaths, but he was breathing.

"Agent Gibbs." Gibbs felt a firm hand on his shoulder, but shrugged it off. "Agent Gibbs, you need to leave."

Tony heard that, and his head snapped up. "Wait -" He choked on the single word, and dissolved into another spasm of coughs, more violent than the last.

Goddamn idiots! Gibbs grabbed Tony's hand, squeezing it tight to get his attention. "I'm not leaving," he said, keeping that same low tone despite his urge to lay into whoever had been stupid enough to distract them. "Tony! Look at me. I'm not leaving." Tony managed a hitching breath and raised fevered eyes to meet Gibbs'. "Good. C'mon now. In...out..." Absently, Gibbs heard another, more familiar voice telling the first person to let him stay. At least someone had their head on straight around here.

He didn't know how long they sat that way. Voices swirled around them, and he caught bits and pieces here and there. "O2 sats at 87%...temp 104.8...pulse elevated..." Each time the coughing started again, Tony's thin frame shaking with the effort of trying to clear his lungs, Gibbs would stop, either patting him firmly on the back or moving aside so the nurses could get in as needed. As soon as it passed, though, he would return to the slow, steady, "...in...out...". Tony kept listening, and he kept breathing.

Suddenly his whole body seemed to sag, and Gibbs caught him before he could fall backwards. And then he did get the hell out of the way, because it didn't matter anymore; Tony wasn't conscious to notice his absence. "BP down to 80/30," someone said, and someone else, probably the resident on call (when did he get there?), said "we need to get him up to ICU..."

An alarm sounded in the distance, and Gibbs started, his head jerking up to stare at the doors, the memories pushed aside for a moment. He waited, forcing himself to stay put, to not go racing back to find what the alarm was for, what was happening, why no one was telling him anything. They'd tell you if it were Tony, he thought. They wouldn't dare not to. True or not, it helped. After a time he relaxed a little, letting his head fall back into his hands, trying to think of anything but those words...

Boss...I can't...breathe...

He heard the footsteps just before he smelled the coffee, and turned to see a disheveled Ducky coming toward him carrying two large cups. Wordlessly, Gibbs took one from him and drank deeply as Ducky sat down. The coffee was still hot and it burned his throat, but Gibbs hardly noticed. The two men sat in silence, Ducky wisely waiting for Gibbs to speak first; when he finally did, his voice was hoarse with exhaustion or worry or a combination of both.

"What the hell, Duck?"

Gibbs didn't seem to expect an answer, which was good, because Ducky didn't have one to give him. Not even a story of how this reminded him of a time when he was doing an internship in a field hospital in outer Mongolia or some other such thing. None of the stories he could tell involved Tony, and were therefore, right now, irrelevant.

"Jethro, can you tell me what happened?"

"Dammit, I don't know!" Gibbs realized he was raising his voice and stopped, rubbing eyes that still felt gritty with sleep. "He was running a fever when he fell asleep, and when he woke up he was coughing his lungs out and he couldn't breathe." At Ducky's gentle prodding, Gibbs recounted what he could remember of Tony's vital signs and the bits and pieces he'd heard from the nurses.

"It sounds like pneumonia," Ducky concluded, and Gibbs was momentarily envious of his friend's ability to take solace in neat, orderly science, to let the medicine take center stage. "Has anyone considered contacting Dr. Pitt?"

That, Gibbs had not thought of. "He's still here?"

"Oh, very much so, Jethro. In fact, I agreed to do Tony's annual physical on the condition that he see Dr. Pitt once a year to check his lungs. I believe he said that if he absolutely must see a doctor, it may as well be one he can have a drink with afterward."

Gibbs couldn't help a faint smile - that sounded exactly like something Tony would say. "It's a good idea, Duck. He knows Tony's lungs better than anyone."

"Precisely what I thought - his perspective would be invaluable. In the morning, we can - "

"What's wrong with now?"

"Jethro, it's the middle of the night." Gibbs gave him a look that clearly said So what?, and Ducky sighed. "Let's see what the resident has to say first," he suggested, just as the doors to the waiting room opened and a tired-looking figure in a rumpled white coat emerged from the ICU.

"Is Anthony DiNozzo's family here?"

Gibbs was on his feet instantly, not bothering to correct him. "About damn time," he growled. This kid was a doctor? He looks like he should still be shaving with the safety blade on his razor. "What's going on?"

"Well, we're not really sure yet, but the symptoms point to severe pneumonia." His words were innocuous enough, but there was something in his manner, a detachment of sorts, that Gibbs found grating.

"And when might you be 'sure'?"

"The blood cultures can take a couple of days. We started him on antivirals just in case it's not bacterial, but..."

Gibbs stared at him, eyes narrowed. "But what?"

"Well, cases like this..." The doctor shrugged, as if he couldn't quite tell what Gibbs expected him to say. "You know."

A deep, slow breath. "No, I don't know. Explain."

"He's already immunocompromised...we'll do what we can, but you need to be prepared for the worst." He sounded like he was reciting lines, like the concept that real people were beneath the tubes and the charts hadn't registered with him. "I'm sorry."

It came off as an afterthought, and at that point, Gibbs gave up on controlling his temper. "You little son of a bitch!" So help me, if he said any of that bullshit where Tony could hear him... He rounded on the man and nearly had him pinned to the wall before Ducky caught his arm.

"Jethro, don't." Ducky seemed unfazed by the doctor's comment. "You won't help Anthony by getting yourself thrown out of the hospital."

Gibbs shrugged off Ducky's hand and backed off, fuming. "For your sake," he warned, "I would strongly suggest you clarify that comment. Now."

Rattled, the doctor tugged at his coat, shuffling his feet. "I just meant that, well, his chances aren't good."

Gibbs folded his arms, still trying to keep from decking the kid. What the hell was wrong with him? For God's sake, Ducky had a better bedside manner, and his patients were dead.

"Do you have blood tests to tell you that?" There was an unusual edge to Ducky's voice.

"No." He shifted uncomfortably.

"Chest X-rays?"

"No, but statistically speaking - "

"Ah, statistics." Ducky nodded. "My boy, you would do well to remember the words of Henry Clay: 'Statistics are no substitute for judgment.'"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He means," Gibbs said tightly, "that you can take your statistics and shove them up your - "

"Agent Gibbs?" The voice from the doorway cut him off. "You can come back now, if you like."

Effectively dismissing the kid, Gibbs strode quickly back toward the ICU. "Get them to call Pitt, or Weiss, or somebody, Duck," he called over his shoulder. "I don't care if you wake them up. Get someone up here who knows what the hell they're doing!"

To Brad Pitt's credit, he didn't flinch when he saw Tony. For someone who hadn't seen him in awhile, it was difficult to reconcile the strong, vigorous Anthony DiNozzo with the man in the ICU bed. Even when the plague had been racing through Tony's body, he had looked healthy in comparison. But Brad was a professional, used to seeing such things...and the heads-up from Ellen Weiss hadn't hurt.

She had called at 5:30 that morning, apologizing for waking him up. Being a morning person, Brad had already been awake - in fact, had just finished a quick run - and he assured her that it wasn't a problem. He'd been more curious than anything; he knew Ellen casually, more by reputation than anything else, thought he had consulted on a couple of cases for her over the years. She needed a favor, she said, and he listened as she outlined the case. SCT patient, ten days post-transplant, moved to ICU with high fever and difficulty breathing. Low blood pressure, low oxygen sats, elevated pulse rate. Still waiting on labs, but it sounded like a clear-cut case of pneumonia.

Brad agreed. "You don't need me for that, Ellen," he'd said, leaning against the kitchen counter and pouring himself a glass of juice.

"His history makes this a bit more complicated," she had replied. "You treated him a few years ago - pneumonic plague. Anthony DiNozzo?"

The juice was forgotten. He pried a few more details out of her while pulling on some clothes, then headed straight to the hospital, arriving in the ICU a bit after six to find her at the nurse's station, examining a set of X-rays on the lightboard. He let out a low whistle. "Those DiNozzo's?"

She turned. "Afraid so. Tony never does anything by halves," she said wryly, as Brad examined the films more closely.

"You've noticed that too, huh?" Brad smiled. "When was he moved up here?

"Late last night," she said. "I just got here myself about an hour ago." She passed him a file that looked more like the white pages of the DC phone book. "Latest lab results are on top," she said.

He examined them, noting nothing terribly surprising given the circumstances, then closed the file. "Where is he?" he asked. Ellen nodded to the glassed-in cubicle behind them.

There were three people in the room, two of whom Brad recognized immediately as Agent Gibbs and Dr. Mallard. He wasn't surprised in the least to see them; in fact, he'd have surprised if they hadn't been there. The closeness of that team still stuck in his mind, even years later.

The third person...had he not already known who it was, Brad would have had to look twice to realize it was Tony. It felt for a second like he'd been kicked in the chest, but he didn't let on. Instead he steeled himself and said simply, "Well then, let's go have a chat."

His lungs were going to kill him after all.

Tony would have laughed at the irony, but to laugh one had to be able to breathe, and he wasn't doing so well on that front. It had hit so fast. He'd fallen asleep feeling drained, feverish, and achy. Just another night in the funhouse. There had been nothing to hint at what was coming; no coughing, wheezing, tightness in his chest, none of the things he'd learned through painful experience were warning signs of yet another respiratory infection.

Until he woke, choking on the fluid in his lungs. That had been a pretty good clue.

The next several minutes had been a blur. He remembered Gibbs, his boss's low, intense voice stopping him cold each time the panic threatened to overtake him and forcing him to focus on moving air in and out of his lungs. He also, come to think of it, remembered Gibbs hollering at the top of his lungs for someone to "get the hell in there". Kinda reminded him of Terms of Endearment. He wondered what Gibbs would say if he knew Tony had cast him as Shirley MacLaine.

Although, that would make him Debra Winger. Better keep that one to himself.

Somewhere along the way he had gone back to sleep (that must have been what it was, because DiNozzos-don't-pass-out) and now that awareness was slowly returning, he had no idea how long he'd been out, or even where he was. He started to speak and realized there was something covering his nose and mouth.

...the hell?

He reached up to push it aside. "Tony, don't," a familiar voice said, and a strong hand caught his wrist. He tried to pull away - he had to get that thing off, it was smothering him - but he didn't have enough strength for more than a perfunctory tug, and even that set him to gasping. "It's oxygen, DiNozzo," the voice said, and Gibbs' face swam into focus above him. "Leave it."

"Boss?" It came out as a croak, followed immediately by a fit of coughing that made the earlier ones seem like a light tickle in the back of his throat. "Sit up," he heard someone say, and - thank God - Gibbs was there to propel him to a sitting position, because he sure as hell wasn't going there under his own steam. The oxygen mask was moved aside, and he coughed until it felt like he was about to crack a rib, like his chest was collapsing in on itself. Was it possible to literally cough up a lung?

By the time it stopped, his head was swimming from lack of air and he was starting to see black spots across his field of vision. Someone replaced the mask; far from fighting it this time, Tony closed his eyes and took a few tentative, grateful breaths of oxygen. He could have sworn he felt it flowing through his system, and he began to relax.

Not gonna try that talking thing again for awhile.

When he finally opened his eyes, it could have been a few minutes or a few hours later - Tony had no idea. He blinked a few times, trying to focus on the figures surrounding him. Gibbs (it had been Gibbs, then) with Ducky beside him, Dr. Weiss, and another, familiar face.

Tony squinted. Is that...Brad? He gestured towards his chin.

"No, leave it be." Brad reached to stop Tony from trying to pull at the mask. Tony swatted his hand away, then repeated the motion. "Oh," Brad said, and broke into a smile. "Yeah, the goatee. Forgot you hadn't seen that. It has been awhile." Tony gave him the international symbol for OK. "Glad you approve. Y'know, DiNozzo, the ICU wasn't necessary. We could have just gone to play racquetball or something."

Tony's next gesture also required no translation.

Brad chuckled, then grew serious. "Tony, I've had a look at your chest X-rays, and you're on your way to one of the most impressive cases of pneumonia I've seen in a long time." Tony rolled his eyes. Not exactly the kind of achievement I was going for. "The verdict's still out on exactly what type, but to be honest with you, half the time we never determine the specific cause."

Tony's brow furrowed in confusion. "Then how do you treat it?" he heard Gibbs say. Thanks, Boss. As long as you're reading my mind, could you scratch my right foot? I can't reach it.

"Antibiotics, antivirals, antifungals, anti-anything and everything, pretty much. And I didn't say we wouldn't keep trying to find out what's causing it - it's always better if we can target the treatment directly. Especially in this sort of case - the immune response would normally play a pretty big role, but yours is still out to lunch, Tony, even if your white blood cell count is going up."

His eyes widened. Up? he mouthed.

"Up," Dr. Weiss confirmed with a smile. "Your most recent count was 1.4. You're going the right direction, Tony. This is just a setback, OK?"

Dammit. Tony wished he could get more than a word or two out without hacking his brains out. Because she had never sugarcoated things for him before, and he would have loved to call her on this one. He knew damn well it wasn't a setback.

It was a race, a race between his newborn immune system - backed by an arsenal of drugs - and whatever nasty little bug had taken up residence in his lungs. If the way he felt right now was anything to go by, Tony was glad he wasn't a betting man. But I am betting, he realized, and his stomach sank as the truth hit home.

He was betting everything.

Gibbs fidgeted with the phone in his hand, flipping it open and shut in a steady click click. He had to call them. As a rule (albeit one without a number), Gibbs did not permit himself to put things off. He did what had to be done, no matter how hard it was. Now that he had something to tell them, he couldn't justify keeping the rest of the team in the dark any longer.

He started with Abby, knowing that call would be the hardest one to make. After two rings, her buoyant voice echoed over the line.

"Hey, Bossman!"

"Abs, have you left yet?"

She laughed. "No, but don't worry, Gibbs - I'm about to walk out the door. I was going to come over on my way to work - there's not much going on this morning. Want me to stop for your coffee on the way? Do you think Tony wants anything? Is he awake? I could maybe bring one of those pastries he likes, see if he's up to eating anything -"

"Abby, listen to me."

She stopped. "Gibbs?"

"Abs, Tony was moved to ICU last night. He woke up with a fever and some congestion in his lungs," Gibbs said, in what he figured had to be the understatement of the century. "Most likely pneumonia."

"Oh my God! Is he OK? Of course he's not OK, Abby - stupid question, you're not in the ICU if you're OK - the ICU is for when you're the exact opposite of OK. But is he...I mean...oh, shit!"

"He's as OK as he can be. Dr. Weiss is already here, and she's called Dr. Pitt as well."

"Brad? Right...okay, that's good. Nobody else knows those crazy lungs like he does. Can I talk to him?"

"To Pitt?"

Abby sighed impatiently. "No, Gibbs - to Tony."

Gibbs closed his eyes, not sure how to tell her that Tony wasn't exactly up to a phone conversation. "Why don't you see him when you get here, all right?"

She was silent. Gibbs wondered if maybe he had made a mistake, if he should have waited until she arrived and told her in person. But he'd had no idea when she would be coming, and calling to check...well, she would have known something was up.

"Gibbs." He could hear the catch in her voice, the sob threatening to break through. "It's really bad, isn't it."

He couldn't answer her; didn't know how. "Stay put, Abs," he said. "I'll come get you."

"No way!" He could practically hear her shaking her head on the other end of the line. "Uh-uh, Gibbs. Don't you dare leave. Tony needs you there. I'm fine. Tell him I'm coming, OK? Promise you'll tell him?"

"Yeah, Abs. I'll tell him."

"I'll see you in a half hour. Or maybe twenty minutes, I can probably make it there in -"

"Abby?"

"Yeah?"

"Seat belt, red lights, speed limit. Or else I am coming over there."

"Right. See you in a half hour, Gibbs."

He hung up, shaking his head, and noted the time on his cell phone. Then he flipped it back open, and dialed the next number on the list.

A/N: Thank you guys so much for the awesome response to the last chapter! As Abby says, I'm hugging you all in my mind.

I actually hadn't planned on bringing Brad Pitt in until I started writing this chapter, but it saved me from introducing yet another OC, as Dr. Weiss wouldn't handle someone with Tony's history w/o bringing in a consult. At least, I don't think she would. Plus, he asked nicely, so... ;-)

The next chapter is already partly written, so I'll try to get it up ASAP!