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Chapter 11: DiNozzos
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Anthony DiNozzo Sr. sat in the uncomfortable vinyl chair next to Tony's hospital bed. Although the older man had prepared his long-overdue speech to his son—had even rehearsed it in his head over and over on the ride back to the hospital—now the words didn't seem necessary.
Being here was what mattered.
Tony began to cough, and Senior found himself leaping from his chair to get his son some water. He felt protective in a way he had really never experienced in his life. He didn't kid himself—he'd never be a great father—but then again, Tony wasn't a child any more. Part of him felt completely useless. The other part knew that this was his place right now: sitting with his son whether there was anything to say or not.
Tony adjusted the nasal cannula at his nose. "Man, this thing itches sometimes. And it dries the hell out of my nose—the one part of me that didn't hurt!" His hand came up a second time to pull at the nasal tubing, but Senior's hand gently intercepted.
"Easy, Junior. Your boss or Nurse Hatchet out there will kill me if I let you take that off."
"Dad," Tony asked, "what're you doing here? You know you can't really do anything. I may be here a while, too." He looked around the room at all the familiar landmarks that he had memorized, counted, and mentally sketched. "This is about as exciting as it gets. Tray, window, botanical picture, TV, tray table, twelve cards, four plants, two magazines, a robe, pitcher, water cup, juice cup, jar of Vaseline, yesterday's newspaper, and too many torture devices to count."
In that moment, the reality of his absences in all Tony's previous mishaps crashed down on Senior's conscience. "Making up for missed opportunities."
Tony stared at his father's face, and tried to sit up higher in bed, but didn't meet with success. "Dammit," he whispered.
His father shifted Tony's pillow and elevated the head of the bed. "Better?"
Tony nodded. "This is kind of weird, Dad. You really don't have to stay…."
"I want to, Junior."
"What a mess," Tony said quietly.
"What, us?" Senior jested.
Tony laughed lightly. "That too, yeah. But I meant my leg, my lungs. I hate this."
The elder DiNozzo nodded, seeing the lines of pain on Tony's face and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "How's your pain? The doctors said you really need to stay on top of it to get better."
"Don't worry, they attacked me before you got here. I can feel the meds starting to kick in already. I may not be a whole lot of fun tonight, Dad." He closed his eyes and tried to relax his body. "Leg's the worst, I think," he added. "Right now I have a few body parts competing for top billing."
"I bet," Senior added. "Listen, Tony, this, uh, this was a wake-up call for me."
Tony reopened his eyes and turned to his dad, a little irritation showing. "A wake-up call? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Dad, this isn't exactly the first time I've come close to dying. I know you think I'm overly dramatic, and I know you hate that, but it's true. I can't say I've had worse, really—well, yes, I can, actually. I beat odds that were 85 to 1, and, no offense, but all you did was send a get well card and a fifty dollar bill. You didn't even sign the card."
Senior fought the urge to defend himself. He hadn't understood the gravity of what Tony had been through before. Not until recently, when Gibbs had put it in terms that left no doubt. Tony had been through a lot in the past 10 years that Senior hadn't really bothered to find out about. He had been too wrapped up in his own life.
"You stood by me, Junior. You looked out for me, and I want to—need to—do the same for you. You don't need to be fun. You need to get well."
A nurse slipped into the room. "Could you step into the hall please, sir? I need to draw some blood."
Senior looked her over appreciatively and winked at his son. "I'll go get a cup of coffee." He saw Tony's shoulders sag in defeat.
"I'll be back, Junior." He saw the doubt in Tony's eyes and felt well-deserved guilt wash over him. "I will be back, Junior," he repeated, resolving that this time he spoke the truth.
*****NCIS*****
When Senior returned, Tony's pain meds had clearly kicked in. "Hey, Dad . . . ," he drawled, "did you see that nurse? She was hot! Not as hot as a little ninja, but . . . hot! Not Nurse Hatchet . . . the other one. The phlebota . . . phelmbota. . . the blood-getter girl. Hot!"
Senior chuckled, a little amused at the dramatic change in his son's demeanor. "Feeling better, Junior?"
"Well," Tony said lazily, "the Happy Juice is definitely on boards. On board. And my dad came for a visit." He giggled and pointed to his father. "And that's funny for me to tell you, because you're him and now my leg doesn't feel like it's going to explode into flames. So I'm happy. I feel a little tipsy and I don't care. I'm fine. Fine. Love you, Dad."
"Can I get you anything, Junior? Do anything for you?"
"Yes. You can watch my apartment and feed my . . . feed my two very special fish. Don't drink them, you know, like Mom. No mint juleps."
"Okay, Junior, I can do that. I'll need a key."
"Mine's on my car keys, somewhere. McGee might know who has 'em. McGee's really smart. He knows everything. The angel fish is Wanda . . . you know, from A Fish Called Wanda. John Cleese, Jamie Lee Curtis . . . ."
"How about the other one?"
"Who, McGee? He's the smart one. His name is Fonda."
"Son, you're losing me here," Tony's father confessed. "McGee's name is Fonda?"
"No! The fish. The other fish is Fonda."
"Right. As in, Jane Fonda? Cute girl."
"No! He's a boy fish. Henry Fonda . . . . You know—The Grapes of Wrath, Mr. Roberts—Gibbs has even seen Mr. Roberts, 12 Angry Men . . . all classics. And there's another reason, too."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"He's Fonda Wanda." Tony laughed. He sank back into his pillow, sighed deeply, and immediately fell asleep.
Senior looked around the room and picked up the day-old newspaper, then settled back into the slick vinyl chair for the long haul. "Love you too, Junior."
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*****NCIS*****
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Two days later Tony graduated to normal in-patient status and he could carry on actual conversations without becoming completely exhausted.
McGee came to visit again, creating a welcome break in the evening for Tony.
"So, Tony, who the heck is Joey Galloway, anyway?" McGee asked.
Tony winced as he pushed himself up higher on the pillows. "Joey Galloway? You never heard of Joey Galloway?"
McGee stared at Tony patiently. "You said Danielle, I mean David, you know, when we thought she, I mean he, was a woman .You said she—he ran faster than Joey Galloway."
"Yeah, this whole thing reminds me of Julie Andrews in Victor Victoria, but this was much more violent. Rated R at least. And not for sex."
"Joey Galloway, Tony." Tim reminded. "Who is he?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, right. Joey Galloway is only one of the fastest runners in NFL history. That's football, McGee, you know, football, the sport?"
"Ha, ha," McGee retorted dryly. "Yeah, I've heard of football."
"Come on, McGee! Joey Galloway! Tampa Bay Buccaneers? Seattle Seahawks? He's a former BUCKEYE, McGee! Ohio State! Eighth overall in the 1995 NFL Draft! Ah, the Buckeyes . . . ."
McGee's face remained blank. "Well, I thought you'd be happy when you found out that you were beat in the race to the barn by David Turner, a state champion track star—not Danielle."
"Thanks, McGee. I don't mean to sound sexist or anything, but I'm feeling better about being outrun by a male Marine than by a female—or almost female—food photographer!"
"You don't sound any more sexist than usual, Tony," McGee deadpanned.
"But still, I mean, come on! He was wearing pumps! Pumps! How did he do it? I'd break an ankle." Tony suddenly frowned, his face serious. "Wow, I guess that's a little ironic, given that, you know, I broke more than an ankle. How's the wrist, by the way? Good thing you're left-handed."
McGee held up his cast. "Yeah, it's fine. Itches some. I only need the cast on for a few more weeks."
Tony's mood sobered further, and he began to roll the edge of his hospital blanket absently, between his thumb and index finger. "I think I remember you coming in early on, when I was pretty out of it. Did you come with Abby?"
McGee nodded. "Yeah, you were kind of in and out, but we, you know, we wanted to see you."
"Did I tell you I owed you a tie or did I imagine that?" Tony asked.
"Well, yeah, kind of, but I wouldn't hold you, you know—"
"McGee, I owe you a tie." Tony looked McGee in the eye, and McGee looked like a deer in the headlights. "I owe you more than a tie, but I can actually replace the tie."
"Okay, well, Tony," McGee began a little uneasily, "if you're saying you owe me for your life, then I owe you for mine, too."
"Well, you see there, McHumble, if I hadn't saved your life, then you wouldn't have been around to save mine, so my move was purely selfish. Yours, on the other hand, was purely not selfish."
"And you think that makes sense?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"So . . . ."
"Yeah, so . . . ."
"So, I brought you something to drink. Rule sixty-nine, you know?" McGee handed Tony a brown paper bag with a bottle inside.
Tony's face brightened. "Jack Daniels?"
"Blue Gatorade. The nurse said you should mix it fifty-fifty with water."
"Awesome. Thanks, McGee!"
*****NCIS*****
The following morning Tony was ready to go home. In his opinion, anyway. Home, where his movies were, along with his big screen high definition television, his comfy sweats and soft Buckeye T-shirt, his white powdered doughnuts, his pillow, his bed . . . .
But the doctors weren't quite ready to release him.
Excruciating boredom had set in.
Tony thought it might actually kill him.
He glared at his breakfast. It simply stared back, in all its monochromatic bland, boring glory.
Boring glory.
Boring glory.
The words had an interesting lilt to them. Almost a roll. Abby would have fun with that.
Boring glory.
Aw, hell! He slammed his fork down on his tray.
Hel! Hel! Hell!
His stitches itched and pulled at his back. His muscles protested from lack of use. And his leg had a constant mild to moderate throb. At least they let him use the toilet now. No more catheter. Someday, if he survived the boredom, he'd even get to take a real shower. He tried to remind himself how lucky he was to be alive. To breathe. To have two legs.
He tried a sip of the thin instant coffee they had finally let him have. He almost gagged. "Ugh!" he yelled. "I'll give anything for a decent cup of coffee!"
"What will you give, DiNozzo?"
Gibbs' impeccable timing never ceased to amaze Tony. And he immediately felt better. A real live visitor. "Hey, Gibbs, nice to see you. Nice to see anyone, really. But extra nice to see you. Is that real coffee?"
"This one is," Gibbs held up the one in his right hand. He held up the other cup. "This one isn't. It's your dark-Italian-roast-sweetened-foo-foo-nut-crap."
"Seriously, Boss? How did you sneak it past the nurse?" Tony reached eagerly for the proffered cup.
Gibbs smiled devilishly. "I told her they were both for me."
"She bought that? No way."
Gibbs tipped his head toward the door. "And I might have brought one for her, too."
Tony's eyebrows shot up. "The red-head, right, Boss? You sly dog. Did you ask for her number?"
Gibbs smirked and took a sip of his coffee. "Didn't have to," he quipped.
"Don't ask, don't tell. I know, I know. Wait, what?"
Gibbs turned his cup toward Tony and showed him the number written in pen on the side of his cup.
"Don't throw that cup away, Boss."
Tony held his own coffee in both hands and inhaled slowly, and as deeply as he could without eliciting a cough. He eased his nasal cannula down below his chin.
Gibbs scowled.
"Just while I drink the coffee, Boss, I promise. I really want to enjoy this. The rubber hose up my nose ruins the whole coffee experience."
"Drink," Gibbs ordered. One of the things he admired in the younger man was his open expressions of pleasure. Didn't matter if it was fresh coffee, nice clothing, a great steak, or a beautiful woman; when Tony DiNozzo liked something, the whole world knew.
Tony sighed, enjoying his favorite hot drink. "I guess it's not all bad. I mean, my dad is actually trying to help. I say 'trying' because I'm a little worried about having him at my house. He'll probably drive me crazy."
Gibbs nodded, knowingly. "Probably will."
"But at least he's making an effort, and that's a first."
"He loves you," Gibbs offered sincerely.
"Yeah, well, he's also a DiNozzo, and we don't seem to do 'love' real well."
"People make choices, Tony. He's making one now."
"Yeah, he is. Thanks, Boss."
"Hey, U.S. Marshall's office called."
"Oh yeah?" Tony raised an eyebrow. "They got him?"
Gibbs nodded. "Yep. Spent too much money too fast down in Cabo. They picked him up last night. He'll be here by tomorrow afternoon."
"Don't go easy on him, Boss." Tony knew it didn't need to be said. That was one interview he wished he could watch.
Gibbs smiled dangerously and took a long drink of his hot, black coffee. "Do I ever, DiNozzo?"