Tony's whole demeanor—including his posture—changed so quickly that Jimmy had to wonder if his previous drug-induced good humor had been at least partially faked. Or maybe it was a cop thing, being able to go from joking to high alert in a second.

"When?" Tony asked, making Jimmy wonder how one simple word could sound so steely.

Palmer ignored him. Or at least he tried to—being on the receiving end of Tony's soul-studying gaze was seriously unnerving. But Jimmy straightened his spine and crossed his arms over his chest. "I can see how you would be confused. Between ignoring a serious illness, disobeying direct orders from the director, running out of a hospital while suffering from bullet wounds—"

"Why does everyone assume I ran?" Tony asked, his smile unsettlingly genuine.

Jimmy exploded.

"Shut up, Tony!" he yelled, taking a step back and throwing up his hands. "Stop with the jokes. Stop with the deflections. You're sitting there bleeding, because someone put a bullet through you. And you think this is funny? Do you have a death wish?"

"Check your pulse, Palmer," Tony said, infuriatingly calm in the face of Jimmy's heaving breath and clenched fists. "You already checked mine."

"Yeah, I know, we're still alive," Jimmy said, still angry. He looked Tony dead in the eyes. "But only because he didn't shoot you in the head."

Tony returned the stare, eyes like marbles set in an impassive face.

Jimmy felt shocked—stunned that his friend didn't seem even remotely rattled by that—and he hadn't even asked the question that had been nagging his subconscious since the firefight. Jimmy wasn't sure he wanted to ask it now, wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

But he did. He needed to hear it.

But first, he tried again. "Or if that bullet had hit you a few inches to the left. Then it severs your abdominal aorta and you bleed out under my hands before anyone can do anything about it," Jimmy said, searching Tony's face for a reaction.

He didn't get one.

"It didn't," Tony said, his expression placid. But finally, a touch of a frown twisted his mouth slightly downward. "You can't start worrying about all the 'what ifs?' in this business, Palmer. You'll go crazy."

"Wrong, Tony," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "Completely wrong. I should have thought more about the 'what ifs?' but I was so proud of my dumb big-screen plan that I didn't think it through. I didn't think about what would come after. I wondered if you would get my movie reference. I wondered if you would go with it. I wondered what getting shot would feel like. I even wondered if it's true that chicks dig scars. But the actual situation? The dangers and the possibilities and the consequences? I didn't think it through."

Palmer leveled intense eyes at Tony, unsurprised when the agent met his gaze unflinchingly.

"But you did."

Neither man spoke, and Jimmy found himself smiling slightly—incredulously, though, and without a trace of mirth.

"Hell," Jimmy said, "I bet you even know what I'm about to say right now."

Tony did not speak.

The odd smile on Palmer's face soured. "You knew exactly what would happen after you shot me," he said, hating the slight shake in his voice. But the question was burning in his head, engulfing his every thought. He needed an answer. "You knew that as soon as you pulled the trigger to graze me, that Jansen would shoot you, that I wouldn't drop out of the way fast enough for you to get a clear shot at him before he shot you. You knew all of that, Tony."

Green eyes stayed steady on Jimmy's face as Tony dipped his head in acknowledgment.

Jimmy closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "So how could you do that?" he asked, his voice strained. "How could you pull that trigger knowing he was going to shoot you? Possibly even kill you?"

Tony frowned slightly, obviously considering his words. "I also knew," he said slowly, "that if either me or Jansen had to shoot you, I'd rather it be me."

"Tony," Jimmy warned, unsure how it was possible to be so angry and yet so grateful at the same time—toward the same person.

The agent held up his hands. "Hear me out, Jimmy. It's not a joke," he said sincerely. "Jansen wasn't going to negotiate, and he wasn't going to give himself up. I think you know that. And I think you know he was getting extremely jumpy. You could feel it. I could see it."

Jimmy nodded, conceding that point.

"I knew it was a near certainty that he was going to put a bullet through your head," Tony continued patiently, his eyes softening when he saw Palmer flinch at that. "I knew I had a vest on, and I knew from the way he was holding the gun that he wasn't very comfortable with it. So I figured he would aim for center mass and not a head shot."

"You figured," Jimmy said, his eyes still troubled. "You didn't know he wouldn't. He could have killed you, Tony."

"He could have killed both of us," Tony said frankly. "But he didn't. Yeah, I knew he was going to shoot me. I hoped he wouldn't, or he'd miss—or that I'd be quick enough to get him first. But you're right. I knew. But I weighed the slight possibility he would kill me against the certainty that he was going to kill you, and I made a decision. I don't have a death wish, Jimmy. But if one of us had to die, I'd rather it be me. I signed up for this job—and the danger that comes with it. You didn't."

Jimmy nodded slowly, feeling slightly dazed as he watched Tony watch him. But he felt calmer, and he realized it had a lot to do not only with Tony's words, but also with the concern, understanding and compassion in the agent's eyes.

For some reason, it made him think about Tony's story about Gibbs screaming at him after nearly getting shot in that alley, and Jimmy was glad it was DiNozzo here with him and not the previous team leader—he knew he'd probably cry if either Tony or Gibbs yelled at him right now. Jimmy vowed to punch the next person who told Tony "You're not Gibbs." Or, well, maybe just give them a stern talking to.

"Cabinet above the stove," Tony said. "You know where the glasses are."

The thought of a stiff drink sounded heavenly to Jimmy, but he shook his head. "Let me check your wounds first. Doctoring under the influence is never a good idea," he said, trying to smile.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Unless the patient insists," he said, eyeing Jimmy's trembling hands. "The way you're shaking, your prodding will poke my eye out."

Jimmy smiled and headed for the kitchen, rolling his eyes at Tony's mock pout when he returned with only one glass. "A, you're taking pain medication," Palmer said, "and two, alcohol thins the blood and it'll make it harder to stop the bleeding."

"You're no fun, Gremlin," Tony said, but he was smiling as he snagged the bottle from Jimmy's shaky hands and poured. His smile turned wistful as he turned the bottle's label away from him.

Jimmy saw the subtle movement, noting too the pain in Tony's eyes despite the medication. "You really miss him, don't you?" he asked, gently.

"Didn't we just have a deep and meaningful talk?" Tony asked, smiling sadly at the face Palmer made as he gulped down the bourbon.

"That's why we should get this one out of the way, too," Jimmy said. He remembered their talk on Tony's couch the other night and said, "And then never discuss it again."

Not only was Palmer not expecting a response, he also wasn't prepared for the honest, open emotion in Tony's words.

"Gibbs can be a real bastard sometimes," he said, wincing.

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed. "He'd probably make me cry if he talked to me the way he talks to you."

"Preschoolers could make you cry, Palmer," Tony teased. But his smile turned pained again. "But Gibbs was there for me at times when I really needed someone."

Jimmy heard the unspoken corollary to that—"And now he's gone"—and it made his throat go tight. He realized Tony looked seriously uncomfortable with his admission, and Jimmy decided it was definitely time to check over those wounds.

"Lose the shirt," Jimmy said, gathering his supplies and scooting his chair closer.

Tony just looked at him for a moment, his expression caught somewhere between anguish and amusement. The smile won out, though, and he said, "I think I saw this in a porno once."

Palmer rolled his eyes as he gingerly peeled the tape from Tony's skin. "Don't get your hopes up. I've got my sights set on someone else."

"Reeeeeally?" Tony asked, his grin chasing the rest of the shadows out of his eyes. "Lee from Legal, perhaps?"

"Yep," Jimmy said, eyeing the oozing wound. "This might hurt a bit."

"Really?" Tony repeated, deadpan this time. But then he smiled again and ignored Jimmy's ministrations, giving him only occasional glares at the poking and prodding. "So have you chatted her up yet? Is she even single? Do lawyers actually date? Ooh, you should show her your bullet wound. Chicks really do dig scars. But you might want to wait until it's not bleeding or pus-filled or whatever. That usually grosses them out. Oh, hey, did I tell you she's going to be my new probie? Heh. My Prob-Lee."

"She told me," Jimmy said, applying a clean bandage to Tony's belly and making a swirling motion with his hand.

Tony turned obediently. "So you have swapped words with the lawyer lady. Swapped any spit yet?"

Jimmy pulled the bloody gauze off Tony's back, making the agent yelp.

"I'll take that as a no," Tony grumbled. "So did you at least ask her out?"

Palmer stopped dabbing at the bleeding exit wound and grinned. "We're going to dinner and a movie next weekend," he said proudly.

"What movie?"

"I don't know. Maybe an action flick since she's so excited about becoming a field agent? Or something romantic, maybe?" Jimmy stopped poking and frowned. "What do you think?"

"Let her pick," Tony said, tossing a glare at Palmer when he started poking again.

"Sorry," Jimmy said, unwrapping a fresh bandage. "Almost done. I'm shocked you ever let someone else pick the movie."

Tony shrugged, getting a glare from Palmer as he tried to tape the gauze in place against Tony's back. "I've had to sit through some seriously awful cinematic garbage, but the ladies really like it when you take an interest in their interests. Or if you fake-fight 'em and then 'let' them win. They love that."

Palmer tossed a look over his shoulder at Tony as he started clearing up the table. "Why am I not surprised you'd fake-fight a girl just to let her win?"

"Why am I not surprised you haven't?"

"Touché."

Jimmy finished cleaning up and then held his hands out, taking Tony by the wrists to avoid the stitches in his left hand and the bruising on his right. He almost said something about it, but he realized it wouldn't do any good.

"Come on," Palmer said, hauling his friend to his feet and ignoring the soft groan. "Back to the couch for you, and then I'll make dinner."

Tony grinned as Jimmy slid under his right arm to help him walk the short distance back to the living room.

"Aw, Jimmy, you're gonna make such a nice house husband for the Prob-Lee someday."

Jimmy kicked him. Gently.

"And you should mention to her that we're friends," Tony said, allowing Jimmy to ease him down onto the couch.

"Why's that?" Palmer asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Tony grinned devilishly. "Because if she's mean to you—or dumps you—I can make her life a living hell."