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Chapter Text

"Boss, I can't breathe." 

"What?" That's certainly one way to get Gibbs' attention in the middle of a case. The team has spent the day searching this ship from top to bottom, practically scrubbing the floors for any trace of the missing captain, without finding anything. McGee and Gibbs are looking through the contents of the ship's laundry hampers, hoping that something of the captain's has been left behind. It's like he vanished into thin air. McGee's been totally normal. A bit seasick, but that's normal for him. He's barely even complained about feeling unwell, even though everyone can tell he's miserable.

"I can't breathe." Gibbs looks up at him for real this time, sensing that something might actually be wrong. McGee has backed away from the laundry baskets and looks like he's on the verge of collapse. His hand almost looks like it's moving on its own, rubbing circles deep into his chest. 

"Hey, sit down! You're not going to do anyone any good if you pass out." He obeys, sliding down the wall as his breathing quickens even more. "What happened? Are you allergic to something?"

"I just - I can't breathe. I think I'm dying." Gibbs hasn't seen Tim look this afraid in a long time. He's normally very level-headed in a crisis, even when he's injured or sick. Hell, he even managed to stay pretty calm even when he got mauled by a dog not too long ago, even if he did end up shooting the poor guy.

"McGee, you can breathe. If you're talking to me, you're breathing." 

"I just - I felt like I was going to puke, and now -" He gasps for breath, struggling to get the words out, "all of a sudden -" 

"It's okay, McGee. You don't have to talk. We'll get a medic in here, and you'll be just fine." Gibbs hopes the words he's saying are true. Honestly, he has no idea. Tim could be having an allergic reaction, a heart attack, anything. "DiNozzo! Tim, you're going to be fine." He puts his hand on Tim's back, a gesture of comfort, but Tim gasps and flinches away, tears forming in his eyes. "Where are you hurt, McGee? DiNozzo!" 

"Yeah, boss?" DiNozzo's usual grin pops from around the door frame, where he and Ziva are sorting through the ship's food waste from the past week. His face drops when he sees Tim, a look of deep concern replacing his standard cheesy smile. "What happened?"

"Stay with him. Ziva, with me." With that, Gibbs heads out to find the ship's medic, Ziva in tow. 

Tony has no idea what to do - he hasn't even been told what's happening. For a moment, he just stands there, not wanting to believe what he's seeing. McGee, shaking, hyperventilating, and crying in the corner of the room.

His shock ends abruptly, with "Tony!" It's a scream of pure panic, one he hasn't heard from Tim more than a couple of times. 

"Hey, I'm here. I'm here." He rushes to sit with McGee, who's now hitting his chest with his hand rather than just rubbing it. DiNozzo tries to grab that hand, to keep him from hurting himself, but Tim flinches away. "You're hurting yourself. Please, let me help." He thinks he's starting to get it now. McGee can definitely breathe, he doesn't seem to be hurt. Well, at least physically.

That doesn't mean he knows how to help. So he just sits there, hoping that his presence is enough. It must only be a minute or two, but it feels like forever. Beside him, McGee's breath comes in shallow gasps as he wrenches his eyes shut. 

"Tony." It's a whisper, barely audible through the slowing gasps. "Help." McGee's hand slows down, just to a tap. "Please." The words might as well be a sob, the first drop of a thunderstorm. As DiNozzo grabs Tim's hand and pulls it away from his chest, he feels how tightly Tim grabs him. He lets McGee squeeze his hand as his gasps become sobs.

"I'm right here, McGee. You're okay. You're okay." DiNozzo never thought he'd be relieved to hear anyone, let alone McGee, cry, but he can tell that the worst of it has passed. He allows himself to relax some, and pulls McGee closer, hoping that it brings him some comfort. 

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McGee's breathing has slowed dramatically, shifting from hyperventilation to sobs and hiccups. His hand no longer has a mind of his own - it's holding tightly to Tony's rather than rubbing circles or pounding on his chest. The panic hasn't passed yet, though. As another wave of nausea passes over Tim's body, he wrenches his eyes shut and his grasp on DiNozzo's hand becomes one of desperation rather than comfort.

"What hurts, McGee?" Tony's face shows nothing but worry as Tim opens his eyes in a squint. 

"I need a bucket." He whispers. "Seasick." But he doesn't let go of DiNozzo's hand for even a moment as he turns his head to the side and squeezes his eyes tighter than ever before. With no chance even for a bucket, it happens. On any other day, he'd never hear the end of this. McPuke, McSpew, McHeave would follow him for weeks. But today, there's nothing but sympathy from Tony as he empties his insides once, twice, three, four times. And then he's back in the thick of it, his breaths speeding up as the nausea comes back stronger than ever. Any respite he'd hoped for has not come.

This time, Tony understands better. He pulls McGee closer, away from his own vomit, as he listens to his sobs turn to gasps. "You're okay, McGee. You're gonna be okay." Understanding doesn't equal help. Or relief.

Then, a gentle knock sounds at the door. "Boss!" That was probably too loud, since Tim flinches next to him. "He's okay, I think. Just really seasick."

"I can see that, DiNozzo." Gibbs gestures to the mess next to them. His voice softens a bit. "McGee, this is Corpsman Davies. He's just going to check you out and make sure you're good to go."

As Tim just barely nods, another voice joins the conversation. "McGee, I have some water for you. If you want it." Another small nod, as his gasps slow to sobs once again. He takes the water from Ziva and sips it tentatively, an unspoken but clear fear on his face. When 30 seconds, maybe even a minute, have passed, he tries again. 30 more seconds, again. The water helps. He's able to calm his breathing, his fear. 

As his sobs slow to a trickle and his breathing evens, his hand does not move from Tony's. Not even when the Corpsman puts the stethoscope on his lungs. Not even when he swallows the pills that are promised to help. They sit there for 10, 20, 30 minutes. Not speaking. Not moving. Until the medicine starts to work and Tim feels like he can move without exploding.

Slowly, he takes his hand from Tony's and leans to the wall with a deep sigh. This time, it's a sigh of relief. "Feeling better, McQueasy?" It's meant to be lighthearted, but worry permeates the question. 

"I hope so."