I hadn't intended on making this into a suspense fic, but it became longer than I thought, per usual, and I decided to split it up..I think one more chapter after this.. Also, when I started researching this particular Tony whump, I didn't really think about how complicated it could be, so I'm going to try to skip a lot of the medical jargon and do what most of us non-medical professionals on fanfiction sites do - fudge a lot of it by just giving the basics, lol! Not beta'd.

Watching Tony all but pass out in front of him, (regardless of what DiNozzo heirs didn't do), had jolted Jethro Gibbs back on his boot heels. He'd seen Tony with a hangover, and the kid could fuss and groan like a two-year old after waking up with one - but he'd never seen him lose his bearings quite like that. He'd forgotten a lot of what had happened on the team, after the explosion on that ship had stolen fifteen years of memories from him. Hell, he'd barely remembered his team. A lot of it had resurfaced while he sorted things out at Mike Franks' oceanside shambles of a beach house.

Some of it hadn't, like the way his team had interacted with each other, or how he'd interacted with his team. He didn't understand Dr. Mallard's constant stink eye or curt, all-business replies when they spoke nowadays. He'd thought they'd been old friends, and could recall some of their early days, when the two of them charged around Europe and the Balkans, doing unimaginably dangerous risks, and sometimes just plain stupid ones on Gibbs' part. So he had decided he wasn't ready for retirement and had come back to his old job. There was nothing criminal about that. It meant he was dedicated and still had something he could offer the agency.

And the younger ones, David, McGee, DiNozzo - they were his subordinates, not his family, because that kind of closeness just didn't work on teams that were there to protect civilians from harm. Sure, you protected each other, learned each other's strengths and weaknesses, compensated for them as best you could, and commiserated over losses, both professional and personal. But you didn't treat them like family. That was just a recipe for disaster, wasn't it?

So why did he feel like the wind had been knocked out of him when Ziva David had tattled to him that DiNozzo had been wearing an outpatient i.d. bracelet? So what? The kid had had some tests, they all had to have mandatory physicals, and DiNozzo probably had to have three times as many after his bout with the plague. And hadn't that been worthy of a few fingers of tequila, remembering those dark hours? He'd remembered that DiNozzo's lungs were still a little fragile, that the kid needed to avoid getting bronchitis or even a bad cold, which had pissed him off at the time. If the guy needed coddling, what was he still doing on the MCRT?

But then he'd remembered that as long as DiNozzo passed his agency physicals, he was cleared to stay on the team, and nothing had seemed to slow him down. Until now.

Gibbs had seen it, but ignored it. Didn't want HR to get in an uproar that he was trying to kick DiNozzo off his team, because Lord knows, anyone in the building and probably beyond knew that he hadn't exactly been behaving like a boss that appreciated his SFA. He heard the scuttlebutt, he wasn't oblivious to it, he just normally couldn't be bothered with it. It was his team, and until the Director said otherwise, which he knew that she wouldn't, he would run it his way. He knew full well he was being a bigger bastard than usual. He also knew the cold dread he'd woken to so many times in Mexico, when, after remembering his unexpected fondness of his team, past and present, he'd remembered the hole in Cate's head, and the blood on Tony's face. How it could have been Tony, too. Might still be.

Enough was enough. No more familial ties.

And how is that working for you, Jethro, hmmm? he could hear Ducky's dulcet sarcasm.

Not very well, going by how he was feeling right now. DiNozzo didn't have a hangover, or a relapse of pneumonic plague, or even a bad chest cold. He had a damned brain tumor. And he'd had it long enough for it to become a problem for him to stand upright, or keep food down, and not known it until a few days ago. And even after he had, he'd come to work and not said a damned thing about it. As if it didn't matter. What the hell?

He didn't understand much of what Ducky had told him - it was all too surreal. Something about the cerebellum, and meningitis, and technically not a brain tumor. Well then what the hell else was it? They were going to cut a flap in Tony's skull, cut out as much of the growth as they could, put screws in his head, and staple his incision back together. Sounded like a tumor to him. He grunted on disgust as the coffee cup he held to his mouth dispensed nothing but a dribble onto his tongue. He needed to get it together.

"Boss?"

"Yeah, McGee, what?"

"Er..I brought you more coffee. Ducky said one more cup after this and they were cutting you off."

Gibbs knew that Dr. Brad had made arrangements for him to be supplied with good, doctor's lounge coffee, his very own pot. Brad had been called in to consult on the anesthesia, and risks involved in general surgery. He hadn't had a chance yet to talk with Tony's pulmonologist, as the man had just begun surgery on another patient.

"Thanks, Tim." Gibbs tried a smile, which he knew came out half-assed. "Hey, you know about stuff like this, right? From your degrees?"

"You mean do I know about brain tumors? Not really, Boss. My degree was more about building medical equipment and coming up with new technologies, like laser surgery, i.v. pumps and stuff - you know, the computer tech behind the life-saving stuff. Not the actual medical biology behind it all. I mean, I have a pretty good understanding of anatomy and…"

"Do you think you could find someone who does have a good understanding of what's happening to Tony? Because I didn't understand much of what Ducky said before he took off after Tony's neurologist."

"Sure boss, I can do that." he answered quietly. "He's gonna be okay, you know that, right? The tumor is benign…"

"Meaning exactly what?"

"Meaning that it doesn't have cancerous cells and it hasn't metastisized - er, spread, to any other part of his brain. They just need to cut it out and maybe after that some radiation therapy if they can't get all of it. Sometimes it's difficult to get it all."

"I thought you said you didn't know anything about brain tumors, McGee." Gibbs gave him a teasing, but pleased look. Maybe even proud.

"I was listening to Ducky. I guess his jargon just comes easier for me."

"So why couldn't he have just told me what you just told me, McGee?"

McGee shrugged noncommittally. He understood all too well Ducky's difficulty with translating medical speak into layman's terms. He struggled with it almost daily with Gibbs regarding computer techno-babble.

Gibbs took a deep breath and counted to ten, angry that Tony's situation hadn't been better explained to him. Tim could almost read his mind. He'd seen that annoyance aimed at him enough times.

"It's Ducky, Boss. He doesn't even realize he's talking over your head. Like Abby does, or myself."

"I get it, McGee." Gibbs ground out, counting to ten again as the younger agent dug himself a hole. He was beginning to get a taste of what DiNozzo had had to put up with in his absence

"Right, okay. I'm just gonna…go see if Abby needs anything. She's still running tests from Balboas crime scene this morning. She can't leave yet."

"There's nothing she can do here right now anyway. The surgery isn't scheduled til sometime tomorrow. Tony's lightly sedated, so he's sleeping now. I'm just waiting to talk to Brad. I'll be here for the duration."

"Got it, boss. I'll stop by later with some take out for you for dinner."

"Thanks, McGee. Bring something for Ducky, I imagine he'll be here for a good while, too."

McGee gave a sharp nod, then went on his way. Gibbs proceeded to collapse into the nearest chair, his legs barely holding him up after Tim's plain talk regarding Tony's condition. He'd pictured awful things for Tony, painful things, possibly an early death, and not in the line of his beloved duty as an NCIS agent. He needed a minute to collect himself as he swallowed hard and rubbed his fingers into his eyes. And he'd had just those few minutes, before Ducky had come back into the family waiting room, talking animatedly and carrying a sheaf of papers and forms and diagrams. It was going to be a long night.