"Tony's fine."

Tony could hear Gibbs' slight exasperation as he fielded questions from what was probably a very perplexed McGee. Missing an entire day of work for any reason was so un-Gibbs-like that Tony had little doubt McGee was pondering possible hostage situations, sudden secret military undercover assignments, maybe even alien clones that barked just like Gibbs but, strangely, decided to take another day off.

"Everything is fine, McGee. Now go repeat that to Abby and Kate and Ducky so I don't have to play twenty questions with them too."

Tony heard the phone shut with a decided snap. "We're due at Candy's at eleven. Want to get cleaned up?"

Tony ran a tentative palm along his beard-shadowed cheek. "We borrowing Lloyd's razor?"

"I'll make a run to the drug store. There's extra clothes in the car."

Tony nodded, smiling, but he was well aware of the humming thrum of exhaustion in his body: tiny vibrations making the weakness in his legs worse. His hands, usually unaffected, trembled slightly, something he'd been hiding from Gibbs by pressing them, shaky and sweating, against the fabric of his jeans. Something he couldn't keep hiding if he was forced to try to stand unbraced through a shower in Gretchen's lux but hardly handicapped-friendly bath.

"Not sure I can—"

He winced a little as Gibbs' gaze snapped sharply to him, the gray eyes far too observant. "When did you eat last?"

Tony shrugged, trying to look like it wasn't a big deal. "Lunch."

Gibbs groaned, his own hand moving up to rub his eyes tiredly. "I don't have your meds."

"I'll make it."

"Breakfast," decided Gibbs. After a second this was amended by a "stay here."

Sam was cuddled down in the afghan, drowsily blinking at the TV and Gibbs gave the blond head a quick caress. He looked at Gretchen, curled over a cup of coffee in a nearby arm chair. "Mind if I make Tony some breakfast?"

She shook her head. "There's coffee."

Coffee was the last thing his unsteady partner needed this morning. He let him get away with it sometimes, ignoring the physician's prohibitions against caffeine and alcohol, but he knew the warning signs of Tony's body as well as Tony did. What he needed right now were carbohydrates for a quick fix. Then protein to give his flagging system something to run on. "Orange juice?"

"In the refrigerator."

Pouring a glass, Gibbs took it back to the bedroom, found himself kneeling, steadying the shaking hands Tony clasped around it. "This time your blood sugar really is low," he diagnosed.

"You taking over for Ducky now?" Tony teased, gratefully sipping at the drink.

"Bacon and eggs," Gibbs ordered. "You think you can make it into the living room?"

"Yeah," replied Tony finishing off the glass and pulling himself to his feet with the help of Gibbs' free hand. "I can make it."

He shook Gibbs' hold off as the hall branched out into the living room and made for the other armchair. Shuffling around the kitchen in search of cookware, Gibbs could hear the softly murmured conversation, could hear Tony offering another apology for his late-night appearance. He cracked the eggs a little harder than was strictly necessary against the edge of the small bowl he'd rooted out of the pantry.

"Tony," he interrupted quietly, the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon slices in hand. He shot Gretchen a mild look, expecting a protest about proffering food across the pristine carpet, but she made no comment as Tony balanced the plate on his knees and took the fork up a little shakily.

He studied her with an intensity that would have provoked a reprimand from Tony if he hadn't been so absorbed in keeping his hands steady. "You are sure about this," he asked.

"Gibbs."

Gibbs smiled tightly at the reprimand when it did come. "Eat," he instructed.

For her part, Gretchen looked more understanding than irritated by the protective questioning. "I'm sure," she reaffirmed, fixing on the hand Gibbs had balanced lightly on Tony's shoulder as he leaned against the arm of the chair before moving to rest her gaze on the small bundle topped by tousled blond hair snuggled in the afghan. "I trust Tony to take care of him. " She met his gray-eyed gaze frankly. "And I trust you to take care of them both. I can't imagine my son being in better hands. Not even my own."

Gibbs licked his lips, his hold tightening ever so slightly on Tony's shoulder. "I'll do my best."

Gretchen nodded her head. "I know."

"This is a statement of your voluntary transfer of custody." Candy Frere pushed the sheet across the table. "You sign it. We have my assistant notarize it and then we take it to district court to one of the judges over the juvenile docket," she exchanged looks with Gibbs, "preferably not Wilson, and they'll approve it pursuant to Title 10, Chapter 1."

"And that's it?" asked Gretchen.

"Well, as you've asked to retain visitation rights, we'll have to work out a schedule, but, yes," agreed the attorney, "that's it."

Beside Gibbs, Tony shuffled restlessly and Gibbs laid a hand above his knee, rubbing gently to try to sooth the tremoring in the thigh muscles that would only truly be brought under control with rest and the now long-overdue morning's meds.

"If you'd prefer your attorney to examine it …" offered Candy, ignoring the glare an impatient Gibbs shot at her.

"No," Gretchen said firmly. "I know this is the right thing to do." But the pen remained poised inches above the paper.

"Could we…" Tony felt Gibbs' hand grasp tensely and he swallowed back the wince that threatened. Obviously Gibbs saw it, though, and released his hold with self-conscious quickness. "Could Gretchen and I have a moment?"

"Alone?" he prodded when neither Gibbs nor their attorney seemed willing to leave.

"Sure," Gibbs finally agreed, accepting the half-smile Tony gave at his reluctance.

"He's got this … control thing," explained Tony when the door finally snicked shut.

Gretchen twirled the pen self-consciously in her fingers. "He cares about you a great deal."

"Gretch, all I wanted—"

"Tony…"

"All I wanted," he repeated, "was not to lose touch with my son." The first genuine smile she'd seen in a long time lit Tony's face. "My son. Do you know how incredible that is? I mean I never thought about kids, never thought of wanting them and, then, there he is and I made him and he's beautiful and brilliant and the best damn thing I've done in my otherwise mediocre life. I just wanted to know him, you know? Be a part of his life. And then, like he always does, my dad rears his ugly head and says I can't have this either. He took away the money and I didn't care. But this … Sam … Sam, I had to fight for."

From across the table Gretchen reached to cover his hand with hers. "I know, Tony. And I trust you with his life. It's just …" She shook her head. "I know you don't think it of me, but I'm going to miss him."

"Then just give me joint custody."

He could see her considering the offer even though he couldn't quite make out her face in the haziness of his vision. He'd grown accustomed to the blurriness, but that didn't mean he didn't mourn the loss of the quick information he now had to glean in other, slower ways.

She sniffed audibly, "No, but I want every other weekend."

"Okay," Tony agreed easily. "Anything."

"Vacations?"

"Any time."

There was the audible scritch of pen being put to paper.

"I know you don't understand why I—"

"Gretch," Tony held out his hand, "don't. I know a gift when I see one and I'm not the kind to ask why."

"Here." Gibbs poured the pills in his cupped palm into Tony's open one, following the offering with a large glass of water that Tony downed obediently.

"I know it's not over," observed Tony, handing the glass back, closing his eyes when Gibbs settled a hand on his trembling thigh. "Never over," he concluded ruefully.

"We've got a signed custody declaration and a date with a judge. It's a pretty good hand."

Tony tugged at his wrist, bringing Gibbs' palm, cupped, against his own. "It is a good hand," he observed, stroking a finger down the curve of the lifeline in a positively spine-tingling way, turning a slightly weary but honest smile crooking the corner of his mouth.

With his free hand, Gibbs drew him toward him, captured the still-smiling lips.

Gibbs pulled the pillow over his head and groaned as the repeated ringing seemed to grow louder. He rolled over and peered foggily at the clock, a hand out to slap the snooze bar until the glowing dashes resolved into a pair of ones and a four and a six.

Saturday.

11:46.

Flailing for the cell he peered at it, too.

No calls.

Beside him, Tony slept on, oblivious.

Flopping back on the bed, he thought it might have all been a dream. But about the time he was going to roll over and bury himself against a warm shoulder, the heavy hand on the doorbell did its damage again.

With an audible groan, Gibbs staggered to his feet, tripping over the fallen covers to tug on his sweatpants. Tony curled toward the suddenly empty space, seeking the missing heat, finally settling on clutching Gibbs' vacated pillow, burrowing his face into the softness with the low purr.

Smiling now, Gibbs headed to the door, hastily buttoning the denim shirt.

She looked him up and down, her gaze finally settling on the tips of his bare toes which he, too, found himself staring at with the same curiosity. They were … toes. Not particularly attractive, but Tony seemed to have a certain affinity for them.

"Can I … help you?" She finally looked up and he added, "… Mrs. DiNozzo."

"Mr. Gibbs."

She was slender, but not overly so, shoulder-length blonde hair lightened by silver around her face. Very well dressed for a Saturday almost-afternoon, in a way that Gibbs was sure screamed old money.

"Would you like to come in?"

"I've woken you up."

"Which calls for coffee." Gibbs pulled the door all the way open. "Come on in."

She stepped across the door almost carefully. "Is …Anthony here?"

"Still asleep." Gibbs put a hand on her back gently urging her forward so he could close the door.

"Is he … okay?"

"He's doing pretty well. The drugs seem to be helping."

She nodded but he could see her hands wringing the handle of her undoubtedly expensive handbag.

"Mrs. DiNozzo?"

"Call me Pat."

"Okay, Pat. You want to tell me why you're here?"

"You're sleeping with my only son."

Gibbs smiled tightly. "I really do need that coffee."

"I've known for a while …" the long, slender fingers, so like Tony's, only more fragile, circled the rim of the mug. "Anthony tended to take every opportunity to express any behavior his father, and what passes for society in Bridgeport, might find embarrassing."

Gibbs drew back, slightly irritated, "I'm not in the least embarrassed by our relationship."

The smile he got back was at least rueful, "That didn't come out the way I intended. If Anthony's at peace, if he's happy … then I'm happy. It's just …Anthony's always seemed to find the hard road."

"His father doesn't share your sentiments."

"No."

"It ever, once, occur to you to take your son's side."

"Don't presume to know what I've done or not done, Mr. Gibbs."

"Jethro," offered Gibbs, "and you're right. It's not for me to judge you."

"But you do," she offered, observing him, her eyes following the lines of his face, settling, this time, on the silver fringe of hair curving over his forehead. Tony's doing … more a demand that he let the military cut grow. Worth it to feel the touch of Tony's fingertips combing through its length. "Are you old enough to be his father?"

Gibbs straightened his spine. So this is what it was going to be. Interrogation. A game he knew well, knew the rhythm of the parry and thrust. Sometimes physical. Sometimes intellectual.

"Technically," he acquiesced.

/Parry./

"Have you considered that you may just be a replacement?"

/Thrust./

Gibbs kept his voice steady, worked to keep the tightness in his throat from revealing itself in his carefully measured words. "Tony's concept of a father figure isn't a positive one. I neither berate nor abuse your son, Mrs. DiNozzo. I think that rules me out of Tony's definition of a father."

/Thrust./

"I didn't come here to fight, Mr. Gibbs."

"Then may I ask what you did come for?"

"I wanted to see Anthony. Wanted to see that he's all right."

"Why now?"

"Because he's…" her hesitation seemed honest, "…ill. Because I'm worried."

"Because you have a grandson," Gibbs inserted.

"I'm not going to defend myself. I raised Anthony as best I knew how. Made sure he didn't face the … deprivations I faced growing up. Made sure he had all the tools he needed to make it in the world."

"Not all of them," disagreed Gibbs quietly. The mug he raised was empty and, with a sigh, he rose to refill it. "There were a few small things you left out. Like affection …" the steaming coffee burned the tip of his tongue, "…respect."

"I'd like to see my son."

There were no sounds from the end of the hall. Gibbs knew if he looked, he'd find Tony still deeply sleeping, find his pillow still clutched in Tony's grip. "One of the symptoms of MS is fatigue. He needs to sleep."

"It's after noon," she challenged.

"He…" Gibbs swallowed against the return of the tightness in his throat. His voice, when he did find it, was steadier than he'd imagined it would be. "He's legally blind. On some days I don't think he can make much out at all. His balance is shot – vestibular ataxia. He should probably be in a wheelchair except he's too stubborn to give in."

The too-familiar blue eyes blazed with something that, surprisingly, looked like pride. "That's my Anthony." She paused, watching his reaction. "I gave him tools, remember? Maybe not as much … affection as you would have liked, but he's strong. He didn't let Al take that from him. Now," she continued, "may I see my son before I leave?"

He was just as Gibbs had known he would be: his body curved against the space where Gibbs normally lay as if holding it in place for him. Gibbs sank down, his hand closing on the solid heat of Tony's shoulder.

"Hey."

One sleepy eye blinked up at him.

"Hey, yourself."

"Got company."

"Ducky?" mumbled Tony, pushing himself up.

"Nope."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Everything okay?"

Gibbs swatted him gently. "Get dressed. Come on out."

(tbc)

Yikes ... apologies, apologies, apologies. Didn't realize the muse had been gone for that long. Heck, didn't realize I'd been writing this thing for nearly a year. If you're still reading, thank you for your patience. Shouldn't be long 'til the end now. Thanks to Aly for poking the muse with a sharp stick and to C for poking me with a sharp stick.