Tim's stomach rumbled loudly, catching the attention of everyone in the bullpen. He looked up abashedly, noticing Tony's smirk. The older agent took another bite of his meatball sub while Tim watched on hungrily.

Why had he waved off Ziva's offer to pick him up a sandwich? She had gone on a lunch run, collecting money from her co-workers. Tim had brought his own lunch for the day, though. He was on a diet, opting to stick to salad (a tasty combination of lettuce, tomato, onions, carrots, hard-boiled eggs, black olive pieces, and a light vinaigrette) and a breakfast bar, rather than absorb empty calories from his usual pastrami and mustard on rye. That's why when Ziva has asked what he wanted, he'd said nothing, that he was set for lunch. Stupid, he scolded, stupid, stupid!

Now, it was an hour after he'd finished his salad and his stomach was begging him for more food. The breakfast bar had done nothing to assuage his hunger and now all he could do was watch while he co-workers enjoyed their lunches: Tony with his meatball sub, Ziva with her grilled chicken breast with lettuce and mayo, and Gibbs with his fully dressed BLT. They wouldn't be hungry by the end of lunch, but Tim's tummy would rage on.

He didn't dare ask anyone to share. Tony, he knew, wouldn't, preferring to watch Tim squirm with hunger (he wasn't on the brink of starvation, after all). Ziva might politely offer him a bit, but he didn't want to ask after he'd already turned down her initial offer of lunch. And Gibbs…well, Tim hadn't a clue how Gibbs would respond to the begging, but he wasn't willing to find out; he'd starve first.

Another grumble emanated from his stomach, this one so violent Tim grabbed at it, hoping to quell his stomach and muffle the sound. No such luck.

"Was that an earthquake, or your stomach again, McGrumble?" Tony asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Shut up, Tony."

"Aw, is someone getting cranky because they haven't been fed? Does the baby need his bottle?"

"Shut it, DiNozzo." That order came from Gibbs. He was almost through his sandwich and was enjoying it; he didn't need his team's petty antics to disrupt that. Then again, he didn't need Tim's loud, echoing stomach to disrupt that either. "McGee, go down and see if Abby needs any help with that computer."

"Yeah, get out of here, McGoo, before we all go deaf from hearing your rumbling stomach."

"One more word out of you, DiNozzo, and you'll be wearing that sandwich," Gibbs warned. He looked to Tim, giving a quick nod of his head toward the elevator.

Tim was more than happy to oblige. Maybe if he wasn't in the bullpen and surrounded by those delicious and aromatic sandwiches, his stomach would settle down and he could start concentrating on work. He hastened to the elevator and jabbed the button for Abby's floor. His tummy was still acting up, but it seemed to have settled down just a bit. Perhaps it secretly knew that the temptation of those sandwiches was now gone?

The ear-splitting death metal was almost comforting to Tim as he sauntered into the lab. "Hey, Abbs," he greeted, "Gibbs send me down here to…" He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes and nose took in a sight and smell that got his stomach growling again.

Abby was standing at her work table with the computer. In her gloved hand she held a sandwich. But it wasn't just any sandwich; it was a buttery, moist, greasy, gooey grilled cheese sandwich. The mouth-watering aroma hit him like a punch to the face, entrapping his nostrils. His eyes watched hungrily as she lifted the sandwich to her mouth and bit in, a trail of cheese oozing out onto her thumb. The perfectly toasted bread crunched slightly as her teeth sank in and Tim could see the butter and grease glistening beneath the lights like glitter and sequins.

She finally liked up and saw him standing there. "Hey, McGee," she said after she had swallowed her bite. "I'm glad you're here. This," she explained, gesturing to the computer (with her sandwich-holding hand), "is impossible to get through!"

Tim barely listened. He just stood there, watching her take another bite of her sandwich. He felt like such a food voyeur.

"McGee? McGee, are you listening?"

"Yeah, Abbs, that'd be fine."

She scowled. "Snap out of it, McGee! We need to get to work here!"

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, "it's just that…your sandwich smells so good…"

Abby looked down, almost as though she'd forgotten she was holding said sandwich. "Oh, yeah, isn't it great? I know I've been doing the whole veggie wrap stuff, but that little place down the street has the best grilled cheese sandwiches and I haven't had one in so long so I thought I'd indulge myself." She took another bite and practically moaned. "Wow, this thing is good."

"I bet," replied a dazed Tim. He was practically drooling. Dare he ask for a little nibble?

"I hate to think about the calories in this," she continued, taking another large bite. She was down to a small corner now and it was on the tip of Tim's tongue to beg for the remaining piece. But he couldn't; all he could do was stand there and watch as she popped the final piece into her mouth. While she chewed it—very obviously enjoying the last bite of her sandwich—she slipped the greasy gloves off and grabbed new ones. "So let's get on this thing, McGee!"

Silently, Tim did as he'd been told. The sandwich was gone, right? That meant nothing to tempt his stomach, yes? So now he could get on with his work, correct?

He was wrong on all three counts.

Tim soon realized that just because the sandwich was physically gone didn't mean there weren't traces of it left behind. The lab smelled of grease and cheese. A few stray crumbs decorated the work table. A small drop of rebellious cheese had landed on Abby's lab coat. It took everything Tim had inside of him not to try and lick that cheese off.

It was a relief to him when Gibbs called him, ordering him down to Autopsy. "I need you to swab our John Doe's hands for gunshot residue," Gibbs had said.

Autopsy had never been Tim's favorite place in NCIS, but it had its perks. For one thing, nothing could make him lose his appetite faster, so it was the perfect place to go when trying to forget about food.

"Hello, Timothy," Ducky greeted when he entered. "What can I do for you?"

"Gibbs wants me to swab the John Doe's hands and see if there's any gunshot residue," he related.

"Ah, very well. I believe Mr. Palmer put him in number seven."

Tim smiled as he walked to the cooler. Yep, nothing like a dead body to make him forget all about food. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. What he saw inside made him jump back.

"Ducky!"

The ME turned and saw Tim pull out the contents of number seven. "Oh, yes, I forgot. The refrigerator is broken and a few people have asked if they could store their lunches down here. My apologies. The John Doe must be in number four, then."

Indeed, number seven was filled with sandwiches enclosed within plastic bag, each carefully marked with its owner's name. Just by glancing Tim could see an assortment of types: ham, turkey, salami, tomato, bologna, roast beef…and so much more! He wondered if anyone would notice if he snatched one. Surely one little sandwich wouldn't be missed, would it?

Before his plans of thievery could further develop, his phone jingled within his pocket. "McGee," he answered, his eyes roaming lovingly across the many sandwiches.

"Get up here. We've got another dead body. Tell Ducky."

"Boss? But I haven't gotten the swabs from the John Doe's hands."

"I'm sending Abby down to get that. You just get your ass up here."

"On it." He flipped his phone closed and looked once more at the sandwich pile. With a heavy sigh, he slid them back in and closed the door.

"Has your stomach settled down, Probie?" Tony asked when Tim made it back up to the bullpen.

He made no attempt to answer the question, but as he pushed past Tony he muttered, "I could kill for a sandwich right now."

The body—a Navy Lt. by the name of Marvin Elkin—had been found in the man's one-bedroom apartment. When the team entered they found him seated at his table, his head on the table. There was a large crack in the back of his skull, making accidental death very unlikely.

"It looks as though he was struck with a blunt object," Ducky surmised as he observed the scene.

Tony glanced at the body and a large grin spread over his face. "I think I may already have a suspect."

"Who?" Ziva asked. "The ex-wife?"

"No, McGeek!"

Tim looked up. "What?"

"Well, you said you could kill for a sandwich right now," Tony said. He jerked his thumb to the table. There, beside the body, was a plate with a sandwich. But not just any sandwich; it was a pastrami and mustard on rye.

"Should we fingerprint him?" Tony asked jokingly.

"Shut up," Tim muttered as he eyed the sandwich. Surely the dead man couldn't enjoy it now. Would it really be that morbid for him to take it? It couldn't possibly be considered evidence, right? No fingerprints to be gotten from it or anything. He licked his lips; he could already taste it.

"Go ahead," Gibbs muttered, giving him a nudge.

"What?" Tim asked.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Bag and tag it," he said, though Tim could see he was hinting at something else.

"Thank you," Tim said with a grateful sigh. He slipped the sandwich into an evidence bag and slipped that into his pocket. "Uh…I'll, uh, go get the, um, equipment from the truck," he said lamely.

"Don't get any of that mustard on the seats," Tony called after him.

AN: Thanks for reading!