Tony woke up, expecting to see sunlight streaming through the windows.

But all he saw was darkness beyond the panes.

He blinked slowly, feeling groggy and sick, and looked at the clock to find that it was quarter after six and he had been asleep for only about twenty minutes. That explained the grogginess, but not the sickness. He moved his right arm slightly, not surprised that his shoulder didn't hurt at all because this was not the nausea that came with severe pain. That was a feeling he knew by heart.

He sat up, his free hand going immediately to his belly, and he eyed the distance to the connecting bathroom. He figured he could make it without heaving on the floor, but his calculations were based more on drinking-induced vomiting than that related to mystery illnesses.

Ignoring the slimy feeling at the back of his throat, he swung his feet to the floor and stood, intending on making a run for it.

He made about three steps before swaying, his knees giving out and sending him crashing to the floor.

The urge to puke his guts out was momentarily overshadowed by the suddenly returned pain in his shoulder, and he simply lay there, half-curled and trying to slow his breathing. He heard footsteps, a softly muttered "Crap" from the doorway, and remembered that Gibbs was still there.

Making sure I don't bolt before they come to arrest me?

The thoughts vanished as he felt a gentle hand settle on his side, low enough to avoid his damaged rib.

"Easy," Gibbs said, that hand moving carefully up to Tony's shoulder, his touch whisper-soft as he made sure everything was where it should be before moving back down to his side, apparently satisfied.

Tony felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he knew he should be feeling grateful that he hadn't fallen on his bad side—he figured he would have shrieked like a girl had he landed on the broken bone and/or popped his shoulder out again.

"Gonna guess you're not examining that mystery stain," Gibbs said, nodding at the reddish discoloration on the light carpeting a few inches from Tony's face. He leaned down a bit, careful not to put any pressure where his hand still rested on Tony's injured side. "That blood?"

"Yep," Tony said, glad Gibbs was distracting him from both his embarrassment and the nausea. He sensed the question and said, "From the Atlas case."

Gibbs was silent for a moment, but then he said, "Didn't realize the wounds were that deep."

Despite his tiredness and the nausea still squeezing his stomach, Tony heard the apology in those words. "Me neither," he said dismissively. "I didn't even notice it until the next morning. Left it as a reminder of where being careless will get me."

Tony winced, wondering why he had said that last part out loud and hating how stupid it sounded. He waited for Gibbs to tell him that hadn't been his fault—ha, right—or for his boss to laugh at him.

But all Gibbs said was, "Hell of a reminder, DiNozzo."

Tony closed his eyes as the nausea returned, tickling the back of his throat and making his stomach ache.

"You gonna puke on me?" Gibbs asked mildly.

But Tony didn't speak because he was trying too hard not to answer in Technicolor. He was grateful that Gibbs seemed to understand—and for the hand that hadn't left his side. It was the only thing keeping him grounded through the dizziness that gripped him as he lay in the suddenly spinning room.

They stayed that way for several long moments, Tony almost hoping Gibbs would shoot him and put him out of his misery.

"Easy," Gibbs said again, standing and mercifully ignoring Tony's hitched breath as the comforting hand left his side. "Stay put."

"Not going anywhere," Tony mumbled, his cheek still resting on the carpet. He closed his eyes, blocking out the bloodstain—and the memories of how he had come home that night to an empty apartment and sat numbly on the floor. You mean "collapsed," he thought. He breathed deeply, trying to forget the exhaustion, the nausea from the drug lingering in his system, the stinging of the multiple scrapes on his back and arms. And Gibbs' steady hands on him, telling him he was irreplaceable—and the completely contradictory slap in the face of seeing McGee at his desk and hearing Gibbs tell his replacement that the slot wasn't quite open yet.

Gibbs was back then, and Tony shoved the thoughts back into their little box, determined to keep the lid safely on them. A towel appeared in front of Tony's face and he shook his head.

"I'm okay," he said, weakly trying to push himself up.

A firm hand landed on his back and he gave up, wondering why he felt more tired than before going to bed. "Just puke, DiNozzo," Gibbs commanded. "You'll feel better if you stop fighting it."

Tony knew he was right, but still he struggled and said, "Not here." It was bad enough that Gibbs thought he had to take care of him, but there was no way Tony was going to let him clean up his mess, too.

"Fine," Gibbs said with a sigh. He helped Tony up and into the bathroom, just in time.

Tony threw up, unable to help his quiet pants of "ow, ow" as each spasm sent pain stabbing through his side. Gibbs didn't touch him until he was done, for which he was glad. He was embarrassed enough. Tony settled back against the wall and found Gibbs studying him intently. The scrutiny was a bit unsettling, mostly because Tony didn't understand the look on his boss's face. If he didn't know better, he'd say Gibbs looked guilty.

"Probably shouldn't have made you eat," Gibbs said.

Tony smiled even though the thought of food made him want to start heaving again. "You were so right about the second time around," he said, looking longingly up at his toothbrush.

Gibbs seemed to read his mind, helping him to his feet again and leaving to give him some privacy—but only after making sure he was going to stay upright.

Tony opened the door a few minutes later, sagging against the doorframe and feeling distinctly like a kid trying to stay up until midnight on New Year's Eve. He was so tired, but he couldn't sleep: There was the photo, and…

"Here."

Gibbs put pills and a glass of water into his hands, and Tony downed them gratefully, barely noticing when the glass almost slipped from his fingers.

He felt an arm go around his waist and he melted against his boss, too tired to be embarrassed. His sleepy eyes landed on the bloodstain and he was suddenly glad for it—glad to remember how Gibbs had hurt him with his joke that night. It would be easier this way, and if he had the strength to shove away from Gibbs' comforting, supportive hold on him, he would have. Because it was just going to hurt more when he no longer had his team, whether the photo surfaced and he was arrested or he simply decided it was too much and had to walk away.

Again.

It was time. Even if by some miracle he found himself off the hook for Landry, Tony knew he couldn't stay. He had become too comfortable—he had spilled his secrets to Gibbs, of all people. He knew he wouldn't be able to handle the looks of pity—or the guilt he felt at having used them all in his quest to show Landry that there were consequences to his despicable actions. He had to leave. It was past time.

"Easy," Gibbs said, feeling Tony's shaking and carefully tightening his grip. "You're okay."

Tony didn't protest as Gibbs helped him into bed. He couldn't have even if he tried, thanks to the exhaustion pulling him under again. Just before he slipped back into sleep, he thought he felt a hand brush his cheek.

"Just sleep," Gibbs said, sounding far, far away. "Don't worry about the photo."

Tony tried to force his eyes open at that but couldn't. You know about the photo? he screamed from somewhere deep inside the fog enveloping his brain, the lead encasing his body. He suddenly recognized the feelings.

It was exactly how he had felt outside that bar on the Atlas case.

And again, he could do nothing but sink.

"Sleep, Tony," he heard Gibbs say. "It'll all be over soon."