Aftermath by ceilidh

A/N:- This is my first NCIS story, set after one of my favourite episodes. Probie was a superb episode, but Gibbs' attitude towards McGee at the end, especially his threat to take away Tim's badge, has always niggled me. So I wrote this story to try and settle that issue between them.

Special thanks to Teri for her time and patience in beta-ing this for me. It's been a great help, and much appreciated!

Chapter One – Running On Empty

He was angry. No, Gibbs sourly corrected himself, he was all out pissed, mad enough to spit teeth. Yeah, he'd start with the one that Archer's roundhouse had jarred to its roots, and work on from there.

Idly rubbing the point of impact, Gibbs sighed, reflecting on what had caused this simmering anger. He'd left his guard down, let Archer get the drop on him. That alone had incensed him, but –

– damn it, McGee had frozen, he'd almost gotten both of them killed, and McGee. McGee –

– oh, crap.

Hunkered into his coat, McGee had wrapped it tight around him, crossing his arms on top to hold it down. Yet he was shaking. Head bowed, staring blankly down at his shoes, the kid was shaking like a leaf.

With bright sunshine streaming through the car's windows, Gibbs had gratefully unzipped his jacket. The sedan was like a sauna, so there was no reason in the world for McGee to be shaking as if they were driving through a blizzard.

So the kid was either spitting mad himself, or he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Given what he'd been through, how close he'd just come to getting killed, Gibbs had bets on the latter.

And now there was a red light blinking on the dash, warning him they were running low on gas.

Glancing back at McGee, Gibbs sighed again. Oh yeah, this day just got better and better.

On the plus side, there was a gas station just ahead of them, with a small diner tucked in behind it – resolving at least two of his immediate concerns as Gibbs steered the sedan to an unoccupied pump.

"Need gas, and I need coffee," he said at last, glancing back at McGee while he checked his wallet. "McGee? You want anything?"

It was a simple enough question, which that human-computer mind should have answered already. So the silence which continued instead, McGee's complete lack of response, was not a good sign.

And when he did finally glance back at him, the blankness in normally bright, ever quizzical eyes – yeah, Gibbs noted in silent concern, his probie was in trouble alright. Serious trouble.

He'd seen that same haggard paleness enough times in his own face to recognise its cause. When had Tim McGee last eaten, or slept? And why the hell hadn't he thought to ask him before now?

Still waiting for McGee to answer him, Gibbs forced a smile through his niggling conscience and tried again.

"Yeah, they do some pretty decent stuff here, so if you're hungry-"

Hunger didn't come close to what McGee was feeling right now. His stomach was so empty it hurt. It was churning, too, promising that anything he did dare to eat would make an instant re-appearance.

And if he were to throw up over Gibbs, when his boss was already spitting mad with him – no. That was a thought he just did not want to finish.

Swallowing hard, McGee tiredly rubbed at his eyes, trying to ease the throbbing ache behind them. If he didn't eat soon, he'd pass out for sure, or make himself stupidly ill, but - well, better that than hurling over his boss's shoes.

So even as he winced, his stomach cramping painfully for nourishment, Tim shook his head.

"N – No, boss, I'm... I – I mean, I'm okay, I'm – I'm fine."

He was lying through his teeth, of course. He was far from okay. And Jethro Gibbs knew it.

'The hell you are. Ducky's got corpses in storage that look better than you'

Even as he silently chastised his agent, though, Gibbs felt a proud smile begin to tug at his mouth. Beneath all that boy scout naivete, Tim McGee had a stubborn streak in him that was almost as wide as his. He had the potential to make one hell of an agent – assuming, of course, that McGee stayed with him.

Judging by the sadness with which he now stared down at his badge, that suddenly looked less than certain.

More to the point, Gibbs knew he'd been the one who'd planted that seed of self-doubt into Tim McGee's mind.

'Never hesitate because you second guessed yourself again. I'll take your badge. Clear?'

Still watching him, Gibbs quietly cursed the threat which, in hindsight, had been badly mistimed – piling even more pressure onto a mind too exhausted, and scared, to see the protective concern beyond.

And contrary to popular belief, Gibbs did care about his people, especially when they were in trouble.

From a snowballing mess of harsh words and misjudgement, one of his best agents was in trouble now. Tim McGee was on the verge of quitting the job he loved – a decision Gibbs knew he'd bitterly regret.

He needed a clear head to recognise that, and - well, right now the kid just wasn't thinking straight.

A real hard head-smack would help, of course. Luckily for McGee, there was a much gentler alternative.

First things first, though. Gas to sort that warning light, a double strength coffee to sort out his mood – and, slyly out of his earshot, a covert phone call to bring Timothy McGee back on an even keel.