Brad knocked on Tony's apartment door. "Be right there!" an Israeli accented voice said.

"I'll get it," said another girl's voice.

Brad raised his eyebrows. Of course Tony would have more than one girl taking care of him if he got sick. Abby opened the door.

"Hey Brad!" she exclaimed. "Thanks for coming. Tony's pretty sick. How's Timmy doing?"

"Timmy's doing better," Brad said. "Where's my other patient?"

Ziva walked in. "Hello, Brad." Tony's in the bathroom. "He's throwing up again."

Brad nodded. "Alright, I'll go check on him." He walked into Tony's bedroom. Apparently Tony had finished puking, because he was lying back on his bed again.

"Hey, Tony," Brad said.

Tony looked up. He was in plaid pajama bottoms, and he was wearing an Ohio State t-shirt. "How is Timmy?" he asked.

"Tim is doing fine, Tony. How are you? You look like crap."

Tony groaned. "I feel like crap. When can I go see Tim?"

Brad sat on Tony's bed next to him. "I'm not sure, man. We can't afford for you to get him sick. Can I check you out?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Tony shrugged.

Brad took out a blood pressure cuff and placed it around Tony's upper arm. He also stuck a thermometer in Tony's mouth.

"You're blood pressure is 140/90. That's pretty high." The thermometer beeped. "101.1." Brad tsked his tongue and placed his stethoscope on Tony's chest. "Any trouble breathing?" Brad asked.

Tony shook his head. "Naww, just my… just my. Oh shit…" Tony took off running to the bathroom again. Brad looked concerned.

Ziva walked back in the room. "Ziva," Brad questioned. "How many times has Tony thrown up like this?"

Ziva contemplated the question. "Perhaps 20 times."

"Has he had anything to eat or drink?"

"He cannot keep anything in," Ziva replied.

"You mean down?" Tony asked as he walked back in the room and plopped on the bed.

"Darn American idiots!" exclaimed Ziva.

"You mean idioms?" Tony asked, perplexed.

"No," said Ziva with a twitch of her lip. "I mean you."

Tony chuckled genially, but then he pouted. "You see this, Brad?" he said. "I'm sick and my girlfriend is calling me an idiot. Do you see what I have to deal with here?"

Brad grinned. Tony and Ziva made a great couple. "I'm sure Ziva has to put up with more… You can be kind of a pain sometimes."

"They're ganging up on me!" Tony shouted, he fake-clutched his chest. "I'm mortally wounded."

"Hahaha!" both Ziva and Brad laughed. At least Tony never lost his sense of humor when he was sick.

"Tony," Brad said a little more seriously now. "You need to try to eat and drink something. You are severely dehydrated. Ziva… can you make Tony a piece of toast, and give him a small glass of gingerale."

Tony wrinkled his nose. "Ugggh," he groaned. Just thinking about food made him feel sick.

Brad looked at his friend. "I'm serious, Tony. If you don't eat, I'm going to bring you to the hospital and start you on IV fluids."

"Damn!" Tony said. "Hurry up with that food, Zee!"

Abby walked in with two pieces of wheat toast with a small amount of butter, and a glass of gingerale. Tony wrinkled his nose again, but he began nibbling at the food.

"Hey, Brad?" Tony said.

"Mmmm?" Brad acknowledged Tony.

"Is Tim going to go through all this shit his whole life?"

Brad sighed. He knew this would come up in conversation sometime soon. "Well, Tony," Brad began. "Children sometimes grow out of seasonal allergies. Sometimes kids even seem to grow out of asthma. Tim will never grow out of the things he is severely allergic to, like peanuts or bees and whatnot. There is a possibility though that the severity of his asthma will decrease as he gets older. Never the less, he will probably need to stay on corticosteroids for the remainder of his life. He'll probably also have to always carry around emergency prednisone shots. He will absolutely need to keep his emergency inhaler with him always, same with his epi-pen. Hopefully, though, he won't have to go to the hospital as much as he does now… It's very uncertain though."

Tony nodded, somewhat discouraged. "At least it's not an outright no," he said. "Poor Tim. The kid wants to be an NCIS agent when he grows up. With those medical problems, being a field agent seems pretty impossible."

"Well," Brad said. "Nothing is impossible, Tim's a smart perseverant kid, but yeah. It's pretty unlikely. He's young though; kids change their minds about what they want to do all the time."

Tony shook his head. "Not Tim. No, not Tim."

Brad looked at Tony. "Finish your damn toast, Dinozzo," he said. "I want to take some blood, then I'm going to take care of Tim. Ziva," he addressed Tony's girlfriend who had just entered the room. "I want him to drink a full glass of gingerale every half an hour. If he still can't keep it down, call me. Also, give him some more toast every couple of hours."

Ziva nodded in assent. "Okay, I will do that."

Brad did a blood test on Tony. Tony of course whined the whole time. When it was over, Brad affectionately patted his friends shoulder. "I'll see you later man."

"Yeah. Tell Tim I love him, will you?" Tony asked.

"Of course."

Back at the hospital, Brad took a decently long shower and scrubbed his whole body. He wanted to make sure he couldn't transfer any germs over from Tony to Tim. He changed into new scrubs and grabbed his white coat and stethoscope.

As he walked into Tim's bedroom, he smiled. Tim was sitting up in bed listening intently to a story Gibbs was telling him. Gibbs was waving around his arms enthusiastically and even making funny faces. Brad would never cease to be amazed at how well the NCIS agent interacted with kids. Brad knew there was some sort of tragic story in his past, something to do with a wife and daughter that he lost, but Brad never pried.

"Hey there, guys," Brad said. "Let's see how you're doing here Timmy boy." Brad glanced at the heart monitor. Tim's sinus rhythm was still pretty fast, but it wasn't too bad. Tim's hands moved in a deliberate looking way.

"He signed, please take it out," said Gibbs. (Tim still couldn't talk since the tube was down his throat. He wanted it gone).

"You know sign language, Tim?" Brad asked, impressed.

"Abby's been giving him lessons. He's a quick learner."

Brad looked at his patient. "Alright, well your stats are decent; I'll take you off the ventilator. But, Tim. If your stats go back down, I'm going to have to put you back on it."

Brad put the bed down flat (it had been up at approximately a 30 degree angle so Tim was more comfortable), and removed the pillow from under Tim's head. "Alright, Tim. You know the drill. On three I want you to cough as hard as you can, I'm going to pull on the tube. One. Two. Three."

Tim coughed and Brad gently removed the tube and switched off the machine. Tim began to harshly coughand gasp for air. Immediately, Brad took the mask he had placed next to him and slipped it over the boy's face. "That's right. Good boy. Deep breaths. You're okay. Good job. Breathe with me. In… out. In… out. That's it." Still holding the mask in place, Brad grabbed a needle and swiped Tim's arm with an alcohol swab and stuck it in Tim's arm.

"Epinephrine," Brad said in way of explanation. He rubbed the injection site for a minute. "Helps spread it out more quickly."

Tim's breathing started to calm down, and Brad slipped the green elastic band over Tim's head. "Okay," said Brad. "I have the oxygen up all the way. If your stats stay good all night with the mask, I'll switch you to a cannula tube in the morning. Hopefully we can get you out of the ICU in a couple days."

Tim nodded. "Can I have some water?" he rasped. His voice was scratchy and hoarse from having the tube down his throat.

"I got it," said Gibbs, walking into the hallway to buy a water bottle.

Tim looked at his doctor. "When can I see my dad?" he questioned.

Brad sat on the edge of Tim's bed as a nurse came in to switch out Tim's IV bags. "I'm not sure, Tim." Brad replied. "I don't know how contagious he is. He's been throwing up a lot."

Tim made a face. "Ewww."

Brad grinned. "I took some blood,"

Tim smiled at this. "Dad… dad." He coughed a little. "Dad doesn't like needles."

"I know he doesn't." Brad said. "He complained the whole time!"

Gibbs came back in and handed Timmy a water bottle. Gently, Gibbs took off the oxygen mask and Tim put the water bottle to his mouth. After a moment, Tim was breathing hard again, and Gibbs replaced the mask. "In and out, Tim." Gibbs instructed.

After Tim had his water, Brad looked pointedly at Agent Gibbs. "Now we fix your hand. Gosh, I feel like NCIS' caretaker here. Okay, let's see it."

Tim watched as his doctor lightly held his grandfather's hand. It was still pretty purple looking. "Well," Brad said. "The swelling has gone down enough. I'm going to put a fiberglass cast on for you."

Gibbs looked annoyed. "The brace or split or whatever is fine…"

Brad returned Gibbs' look of annoyance. Then Brad looked at Tim. "What color cast do you think I should give your grandpa, Tim?"

Tim's face split into a huge grin. "I get to chose?" he asked, looking at his grandpa for reassurance.

"If it makes you that happy, sure," Gibbs replied.

Wickedly, Tim grinned. "Pink."

Gibbs' jaw dropped. "You're not serious, are you Tim?"

"Naw…" Tim winced as he breathed in too hard. "How about—how about green?"

"Tim," Brad said. "No more talking, alright? Just relax and concentrate on breathing. I think you're right." Brad's grin was just as evil as Tim's original grin. "Pink will be perfect. Besides, I'll have to change the cast next week anyway. Then we can do green."

"Oh, Lord," Gibbs groaned pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tough Guy Super Special Agent Gibbs is being replaced by Agent Grandpa Gibbs with the emotions and the pink cast. Fan-freaking-tastic."