No one cares about you.
They don't like you.
You're worthless.
You're stupid.
Why do you think they always leave you behind?
God, it must suck to be you.
The words were stuck in his mind as he tossed and turned, trying to fall asleep. He could hear her voice, taunting him, provoking him, pushing him toward his breaking point. When he closed his eyes, he saw her standing there, arms crossed, eyes gleaning with malice, and lips twisted into a sick smirk. She loved to watch him squirm, see his resolve break. It's almost as though she took some sort of perverse pleasure in it. How she had ever managed to get a job at NCIS was beyond him. A mind like that should never pass the psych evaluation.
He knew he shouldn't let it get to him, but it was hard. The first few diatribes had been a minor annoyance. The next ones had been hurtful. The ones she'd been slinging lately had stuck, making him suddenly doubt himself. After all these years he still had his self-confidence issues, but he had mostly gotten past it.
Then he had met Greta. She made him doubt himself in ways he'd never thought possible. She made him feel stupid. She made him feel insignificant. She made him feel…so small, like scum beneath her shoe that she wanted to pick off and toss away.
Even if he tried to avoid her—and he did—she managed to find him, as though she was seeking him out specifically to torment him. But that didn't make sense. How could a person waste so much time looking for someone just to torment them? Tim certainly didn't have enough free time in his life to spend it around someone he didn't like.
If it had been a general dourness he would have understood better; but it wasn't. When anyone else was around, she transformed into the sweetest woman you could ever meet. She joked with the others, complimented them, even flirted with some of them. But if he caught her alone, her lips would curl into a snarl and she would throw insult after insult, making sure he understood just how much she despised him.
And why? What had he ever done to her? He wasn't perfect, certainly, but he wasn't mean-spirited. If he had somehow offended her, he's happily apologize, but she didn't mention any slights. It was just hate for the sake of hate.
He turned and looked at the clock. 4:03. It was late…or early, depending on how you looked at it. No point in trying to sleep anymore. May as well get some coffee in him. He would need it.
He slipped from his bed and exited his bedroom. He padded past Jethro, who gave only a cursory glance before returning to his canine sleep.
With coffee in hand, he fell into his chair, placing the mug beside his typewriter. Maybe his lack of sleep would lead to something of use. But as he sat there, fingers posed atop the keys, his mind was blank. No, not quite blank, actually, but filled with thoughts and ideas that he would rather not put to paper.
With an hour past, his coffee cold, and no other inspiration coming, he sighed heavily and began typing.
Worthless. Stupid. Me.
AN: This story is being written in response to an anonymous reviewer who goes by the name of "Greta" (among other names, I'm sure) and who has made it her mission to bash any story in which Tim McGee is featured in a positive light. This is my "saulte" to her ;)