Author's Note: This story is about the time covered by Tony's narrative/flashback in the season premiere, between seasons 6 and 7. Gibbs' head is proving quite impenetrable so far, so this will alternate between Tony and McGee's POVs. It's not exactly Tiva, but can certainly be read that way...please let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: If I owned NCIS...TIVA. Enough said.

"Good morning, Tony," McGee said, his tone hopeful. But his partner didn't even look up. McGee sighed quietly, setting his bag on his desk. Come on, Tony. We can't take much more of this. In the four day since Tony and Gibbs returned from Tel Aviv, Tony had barely said a non-work-related word. He strangely resembled the model employee - at work before McGee and Gibbs every day, always on task, thorough and focused except the time he spent staring at the empty desk across from his - but he wasn't Tony.

Gibbs breezed into the bullpen, silently as usual, and McGee tried again. "Morning, boss."

He was rewarded with the the customary glance and nod. "McGee." Gibbs sat and settled his coffee on his desk, then dug into the files in front of him without comment.

Come on, Tim. Stop being such a quivering wimp. But about what subject does one make small talk with Gibbs? Weather? He practically lives in his basement. Oh, sailing?...No, for all you know he's never actually finished a boat. Why are you trying so hard anyway? McGee couldn't remember ever thinking of conversation topics at work before. Before...when Ziva was always kicking an eraser's ass or screwing up some idiom. When Tony was SuperGluing things to my desk and musing about Gibbs' personal life and earning headslaps. McGee tried to focus on his own cold case, but the ambient noise was somehow deafening. Tony's pen scratching, Gibbs' finger tapping absently against his coffee cup, and the hum of voices from other teams' areas - real teams, McGee thought bitterly, and suddenly the bullpen was suffocating him. He nearly scrambled to gather his papers and laptop. "Uh, boss, I'll be in Abby's lab. Working on...this case. If you need me. I mean, if we get a case. I mean, this is a case...just a cold case. Not that it can't be solved. Which is what I'll be doing in -"

"Abby's lab. Heard you, McGee."

He hurried toward the elevator, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on him.

***********

McGee stormed into the lab, finding it empty. He set his papers and backpack on an unoccupied table, then after a moment's pause, kicked the chair. Hard. "Dammit. Dammit, Dammit!"

But the technique didn't work. He'd seen Tony do it many times in the last few days - just as tears began to well up in his eyes, he'd storm out of the bullpen, and when McGee worked up the courage to look for him, he'd find him pounding the shit out of a punching bag in the gym. His knuckles bled, but McGee had never seen him cry. But as much as McGee kicked the chair, throwing in a couple punches to the concrete wall for good measure, he still felt hot trails down his cheeks. Don't be such a wuss. You have nothing to cry about. Ziva's not dead. Slam. Smack. Crash. Might as well be, the angry side of his brain argued. Tony too.

His next hit was so hard he felt something in his hand crack. Pain shot from there to his already constricted chest, and as the physical mixed with the emotional it was too much. He barely made it to Abby's sink before he convulsed violently and emptied his stomach of the breakfast he'd barely been able to force down with the thought of another day at work. His gagging drowned out the elevator's ding, and by the time he heard the door click open it was too late to react.

"Timmy?" The alarm in Abby's voice forced his eyes to hers, but he remained leaning against the sink. "Oh, Timmy." The genuine concern was too much for him, and he slid to the floor and buried his face in his hands. Abby rushed to his side, first grabbing a water bottle from her desk. "Oh, Timmy," she repeated, sitting beside him and wrapping an arm around him as he cried. Somehow she knew it was more than a stomachache. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm such a wuss, Abs," he choked out. "Everyone else lost a friend, too, but I'm the only one freaking out like this."

"You are not," she said firmly. "You think I don't freak out sometimes?"

"Tony and Gibbs..." he mumbled.

"Gibbs has a different way of dealing with things, Timmy. His freakouts occur in his basement with a bottle of bourbon and a manual sander. Tony...you're right. Tony's not freaking out at all."

"That's the problem," McGee muttered. "He's so...not Tony."

"I know. I miss him too," she said, hugging him closer. "But he'll be back, he just needs time."

"I hope he comes back soon, Abs." He rested his head on her chin. "It's so strange without him. Gibbs...I don't know how to talk to Gibbs without Tony there. Especially this pissed off, quieter-than-usual Gibbs. I don't want to make him mad...it's usually not so bad 'cause he's always just getting mad at Tony's stupid stunts, but now..."

"Believe me, he misses Ziva and Tony too. Just wait, Timmy. Everything will work out. And I'm always here when things up there get too tense."

"Thanks, Abby. I'm going to need it."

She squeezed him tighter, and he winced. "Oh no! Are you hurt?" she asked in typical Abby fashion.

"Just a little," he admitted sheepishly, holding up his left hand.

Grabbing it gently, she looked up at him. "Tim! This is broken! What happened?"

He glanced at her overturned chair. "Stress relief?"

Cradling his hand, she hugged him again. "Come on, let's go see Ducky."

Please review! More coming soon, promise.