Ziva watched McGee out of the corner of her eye as the team made their way back to headquarters. Gibbs was driving and Tony sat in the passenger seat, which left her and Tim to rattle around in the back of the CSI van with the evidence and equipment.

The junior agent was looking at the floor, seeing nothing….at least, nothing that was there in front of him. Normally, the ex-Mossad agent would put a little effort into covertly spying on her friends, but McGee was so lost in thought that she could gaze directly at him without him feeling the stare. Crime scenes were never happy occasions per se, but rarely was the van this quiet.

There were always cases where a member of the team would come a little too close to the situation, would feel it a little too personally. But of all of them, this tended to happen to McGee the least. And yes, he'd been noticeably struck by their open case of the murder of CPO Moore, but that was to be expected. Seamus Moore, as far as they knew at this point, was a victim who happened to be a flightling. He was killed in a rather mundane way, at least in the context of the murders the MCRT usually dealt with.

But this? This new victim was a child. Ok, he was nineteen. He was legally an adult. But he wasn't even allowed to legally drink. He was a child.

Ziva was trying hard to put her own feelings aside; never mind that she saw her sister, a younger version of her brother, a more innocent version of herself, in every young person they encountered at work. The fact that this child was Jewish was also a little too close for her comfort. But the fact that he was a flightling? A barely-adult flightling who had been attacked and brutalized, two limbs cut off, his body dumped out in public with no concern for whether someone might discover the bones that had once connected his wings to his back….

McGee wore long sleeves every day -he always had- but now every once in a while Ziva was reminded that beneath those sleeves were a few crisscrossed scars from wounds that had been inflicted on him while he was being tortured. He'd almost had his own wings torn from his back. This case was bound to be a little too personal no matter what.

Ziva was the only one from their team who had been legitimately tortured before the events of the past year. Now there were two of them. And while it had taken a long time for her to recover from her heinous experiences, she had done her best to immediately hide her pain, to hide the scars that littered her body and her mind. That's why she could see when McGee did the same.

He couldn't hide the fact that he didn't sleep well, as much as he tried. But the ex-Mossad agent knew that to his credit, Tim dealt with his struggles well and that he wasn't constantly haunted by the things that had happened to him. Or at least, he didn't seem to be.

She just hoped that this case wouldn't change that.

Tim, for his point, was just trying to quell the nausea that had followed him away from the crime scene. He knew he was going to have to pull it together if he was going to be allowed to continue helping with this investigation; the only thing that would be worse than dealing with this case would be not being involved in it at all.

It wasn't just the fact that their vic was a flightling. It wasn't even that he was particularly young. They'd had young victims, whether of murder or some other crime, and while it always hurt, right now it wasn't the age of the boy that had shaken him so.

McGee knew almost nothing about Michael Coleman at the moment. Just that his dad was a naval commander, that Michael was nineteen, and he was a flightling. And part of him wondered: how long had the boy been a flightling? His whole life? Or was this a recent change. How did he deal with these powers, with this secret, with this alternate life?

Tim wondered how he himself would have been different if he'd been a flightling from youth. It obviously would have been a secret to everyone except those closest to him. And besides his interesting eyes, his physical appearance would have been the same to his peers; they'd be blissfully unaware of his wings, his powers. Would he still have been bullied? Would bigger boys still have knocked him around and pushed him out of their way in the halls of school? Just one push back with his inhuman strength and they might have decided he wasn't someone to mess with. Would just the knowledge of his secret powers have made him more confident, less jumpy and scrawny and eager to please as a kid? Would he have been so self-conscious, even into young adulthood? Would he have still joined NCIS or would his powers, even while secret, have made him fit better somewhere else? Would it have taken him so long to become a strong, self-assured agent? Or on the other hand, would being a flightling have made growing up harder? Would he have been raised to be constantly aware of keeping his secret? Would he have lived in paranoia, would he have been afraid of himself for his whole life? No sleepovers or extended playdates with his friends, in case his wings popped out of his back while he was still learning to control them? Having to ask permission to go flying? No boy scouts or tee ball because his strength, even as a child, would have been too conspicuous? Would his odd eyes and complete inability to defend himself (less he give away his secret) have made him an even worse target for bullies? Would his parents have seen him differently? Would he have earned his father's approval or even worse disdain?

McGee really wanted to know all about Michael Coleman's life. How happy or difficult or full of love and success or sadness had the boy been? And what had he done to warrant such an end? Was he far less innocent than he looked? Did he kill humans for sport and was thus disposed of by a hunter? This thought always repulsed Tim on many levels, but on this occasion he suddenly wondered whether he himself would have killed humans, had he grown up being so acutely aware of his abilities. How would his parents have steered his moral code then- and would they have been able to? Instead of being left alone by bullies or enduring even worse treatment, would his boorish peers have met bloody, soul-stealing ends shortly after high school graduation?

These scenarios all played around in his head, each coming in and out of focus and keeping the junior agent preoccupied. This was so much the case that McGee didn't even notice that the van had reached NCIS until Ziva had gently put her hand on his shoulder and shook him. Even then, he made his way to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, and it wasn't until he made it back to the bullpen to meet his team that he was truly back on earth.

This was the moment that he noticed that Gibbs and Ziva were already gone.

"They went to interview the Colemans," Tony informed his friend when asked. "I'm on my way to talk to the kid's roommate...You with me, McGee?"

"Yeah, sorry," Tim shook his head a little to finish burrowing his way out of the reverie he'd created for himself.

"Gibbs said you should go help Abby process evidence," DiNozzo said, not mentioning that their boss had made this delegation hoping it would give McGee something to dive into and focus on instead of the unpleasantness his own mind was churning up.

…..

Abby, unsurprisingly, was more optimistic.

"I know we have no reason to think just yet that your two cases are connected, but if they are, that's almost a good thing! I mean, we have nothing to go on with the first murder, and two crime scenes means there's twice as much evidence now. Okay, well, I mean statistically, there are probably different "amounts" of evidence from each for us to process, but the point is, the upside to this addition is that we might have way more to go on and way more for you guys to look into…." she rambled, and this actually did help Tim's state of mind. The forensic tech was just very good at being in the present and looking on the bright side of things.

They started with the evidence that had been picked up by the agents directly from the scene at the park. A phone with earphones attached had been playing music, and Jimmy shortly came by with Michael Coleman's clothes and some blood and hair samples for evidence comparison. McGee handed Palmer their victim's cell phone and the assistant M.E. returned a few minutes later, having used the boy's finger to unlock his phone, post-mortem.

"Looks like he was out jogging when he was attacked," McGee noted while Abby started on the tennis shoes and pants. They had some blood spattered on them, but there was almost no spatter past a very defined area of the young man's shirt. It was all very inconsistent. Which of course made it all the more interesting.

"Look," Abby pointed to her screen after a few minutes, and Tim leaned in to get a closer look. "The blood on his shoes and pants doesn't match the blood on his shirt."

"Which one is his blood, though?"

"The blood on the shirt is Michael's. Which makes sense, because of the stab wound underneath it. But this blood on his shoes and on his pants doesn't belong to him. It's a totally different type."

"Someone else's blood," McGee murmured. "So was he the one fighting back, or was the other person?"

"Well you said his wings were cut off, right? That doesn't seem like something you do when you kill someone out of self defense."

"Good point. Also," the agent went over to the evidence table and picked up the shirt. "This shirt isn't cut. It was torn when Coleman opened his wings. He probably didn't intend to use his wings while he was wearing his shirt. And he wouldn't have to have his wings out to attack someone but it seems like if he was intending on killing a person, he would have been a hundred percent prepared to get away, which might involve using his wings."

Abby picked up the smart phone, which had been playing music from a playlist specifically titled "Running." She then turned over the pair of tennis shoes. "See where they're worn out on the soles? The soles of running shoes wear out way after the rest of the treads do. This kid was probably running a lot in his spare time."

"And the blood in the grass in the park indicates that whatever fight took place happened right there. There wasn't any killing somewhere else and dumping the body in the park. And Ducky said he was probably killed early in the morning, which may actually have been attacked late at night."

"So he's probably out for his run," Abby began. "And he's most likely the one to be attacked first. Ducky can fill in the details of what happened after that, but ultimately, he was left there and no one noticed him until another jogger went by in the morning and saw him."

"That's pretty different from what we came up with for the last murder," McGee put in, a bit disappointed Things would be so much easier if their cases were connected.

"Well, it might be totally different, but that doesn't mean it wasn't the same person," the forensic tech said. "But then again, it might not be. Don't worry, Timmy. We're gonna catch whoever did this, to Michael Coleman and to Seamus Moore."

McGee nodded, and the two went back to processing evidence, a fresh sense of determination inspired in both of them.

…..

Tony stepped over a particularly large pile of clothes, a backup team CSI team on his heels as he toured through the small apartment that Michael Coleman had shared with his roommate, Patrick.

"So, is your team going to go through everything?" the roommate in question asked nervously as he too followed the senior agent into Michael's bedroom.

"Don't worry, Pat," Tony said as he scanned the victim's personal space. "The porn folder on your computer is safe. If you're helpful I might even overlook all the cheap pot paraphernalia in that shoebox under your bed."

The young man looked alarmed. "How did you know—"

"I didn't until just now," DiNozzo replied, and even though he had his casual-yet-serious persona on, which he employed every time he spoke to younger persons of interest, he had to really work to keep from breaking at the kid's dumbfounded expression.

"I-I'll help you with whatever you want."

"Great," Tony turned from surveying the room. "Give me the grand tour while my guys take a look around."

The teen showed the agent the little flat. The shared bathroom was cleaned through quickly and didn't have anything interesting to share with the investigators, save a few fingerprints that could be used to identify both Michael and Patrick. The kitchen also didn't turn up much.

"Which one of you is the protein shake freak?" DiNozzo asked.

"Mike. He's training for a half marathon. Or, was," Patrick said, saddened.

"So he'd go out for a run every day?"

"Yeah, I can show you where," a smartphone was produced and the maps application pulled up. "So he'd start at our building, go north up this street, hit the park, run around the park as many times as he needed to for him to hit the distance he wanted, then leave through the back exit of the park, by the pond, see? And he'd run south down this street here, turn right, and end up back here."

The senior agent examined the path lined out for him. Coleman had been found directly off his normal route, just before the end of what looked like the fourth mile. "You ever go with him?"

"Nah, dude. I mean, not to run. A couple times he asked me to ride my bike behind him and pace out the single-mile sprints he wanted to make. But we hadn't done that in a while."

"So he never mentioned anything weird on his runs?"

"Anything weird?"

"Weird people. Crazy homeless guys yelling at squirrels, cute girls he'd stop to talk to, anyone following him?"

"No. I don't even think he'd notice any of that. He got really into the zone."

DiNozzo watched some more techs go over every inch of the apartment's living room- or this tiny space's equivalent to a living room, anyway. The sectional couch was falling apart and the chairs were busted up, as furniture was wont to be in the apartment of two college-aged men.

"So the cops told me he was stabbed," Patrick asked, suddenly more sad and serious than he'd been while giving Tony a tour of the apartment.

"Yeah," DiNozzo said quietly. He felt for the kid. Pat had introduced himself as Michael's best friend. They'd known each other since high school. Just over a year ago, Tony had thought he'd seen his own best friend murdered. He knew the pain.

"Do you know…" the young man trailed off, and decided not to finish his question. Choosing to ignore it for the moment, he pressed on with more queries of his own.

"You have any idea who might of done this? Anyone who didn't like Michael, anyone who bothered him?"

"No, everyone loved him. All our friends, his family- aw man, did someone tell his parents? They're gonna be crushed."

"A couple of my coworkers are with them now," DiNozzo responded. "Was he close with his parents?"

"Yeah. He never went through the phase where he hated his folks or anything. I mean, they are pretty cool. They're just super supportive and nice, is all."

"What about a job?"

"He was going to get a summer job, but he wasn't gonna start looking until the semester was actually over. It just ended a couple weeks ago."

"So no job. And no classes right now. What'd he do in his spare time?"

"Uh, hanging out with friends, video games…we'd all play basketball like once a week…normal stuff?"

"Specific, thank you," Tony deadpanned. He watched a few techs take Michael's laptop and a few other personal belongings out in evidence bags before continuing. "Any girlfriend?"

The younger man snorted. "One every other week. He didn't really "date." Like, he wasn't a bad guy, in fact I'd say he treated girls better than most guys, but it was always casual."

"So no long-term thing?"

"No."

"Alright…" DiNozzo nodded, satisfied, and turned to see the techs wrapping up their work. The last of the investigators gave the agent a nod of parting before shutting the door behind him, leaving Tony alone with the young student.

"So how long did you say you knew Michael?" he asked, more casual and conversational. This made Patrick relax a bit.

"Since high school."

"You guys were close?"

"He's my best friend," the kid grimaced when he noticed that he'd used the incorrect tense.

"I really am sorry for your loss. But I have a few more questions."

After a shared beat of quiet, Pat nodded. Tony turned and went back to Michael's room, and the deceased boy's friend followed.

"So," DiNozzo began again, pacing around the room and looking around. He had a pretty clever way to figure out the one question he couldn't outright ask, but it would only wok out of sheer luck. He'd been to McGee's home often, and because that was the one place that Tim regularly had his wings out, feathers would occasionally fall out unnoticed and be found later, much like a normal person may find strands of hair and complain of "shedding."

The team of CSI techs had checked under the bed and on top of the bed, but there was a small space between the bed and the wall. And if Michael Coleman was anything like Tim or Victoria, then sleeping sometimes, if not always, included his wings being open. Which made for a greater opportunity of "molting."

Success. Caught between the bedsheets and the wall lay a couple of very large feathers. Tony picked one up and pretended to be fascinated, as if he'd never seen such a feather. It was indeed a very pretty color- it was tawny and brown, with flecks of white here and there. He could imagine the big, multi-shaded wings that they had once belonged to, which would have made for a perfect match with the late boy's bronzed skin tone.

"Wow, this is pretty cool. Any idea what this is from?"

Patrick, for his part, had gone a bit pale and his nervousness returned.

"I…uh…"

"This is obviously a bird's feather, but what bird?" the agent hedged.

"Mike collected birds feathers," the teen attempted to explain.

"Huh. Well, all I see is this one. And unless your friend was plucking feathers off of condors, I don't know of a whole lot of birds that could make feathers this big."

"I…I think Mike actually did mention that this was a condor feather," the boy lied, and while it was obviously a falsehood, DiNozzo was a bit impressed that this kid had the guts to try, and the presence of mind to be that quick on his feet. But Tony was a pro. He brandished his pair of handcuffs.

"Well then, Mike probably would have mentioned that the condor is a critically endangered species and owning the feathers of any protected bird is a crime. Which makes you an accessory."

"Wait!" the kid's expression was once again so shocked that the agent almost broke his facade. Like he was going to arrest this teenager over random bird feathers that were definitely not from a condor. "I don't know for sure that they're condor feathers?"

"Are you a bird expect, Pat?"

"No…"

"Then unless you can tell me exactly what this is from, I have every reason to think it's from a condor."

"No, wait! It's Mike's!"

Tony was waiting for such a confession, but wasn't so far in that he could afford to drop the act just yet. "You already told me it belonged to Mike. And if he was a so-called feather collector, why's he stuffing parts of his collection down behind his bed?"

"They probably fell there!"

"So you have seen these before?"

"Yeah! They got left all over the apartment."

"What do you mean?"

"I…uh…I can't tell you, alright?"

"You know this means I can arrest you for obstruction of justice, right?"

"I don't care. I can't tell you."

Suddenly, Tony was infinitely more impressed with the younger man's loyalty to his friend. He eased up.

"I know about it, Pat."

After a pause, the kid spoke again. "You know?"

"Mike was found with his wings out," DiNozzo said, deciding to spare him the horror of knowing that the wings had been cut.

"Oh…" his shoulders slumped in relief that he could talk about it. "Did you know about it before?"

"Yeah. My best friend happens to be a flightling….A couple of my friends are, actually."

"I was gonna say, you are way too chill with this for a guy who just found out about it this morning."

"Sorry to freak you out there, but I had to find out if you knew without asking you outright."

"It's cool, I get it."

"So are you a flightling too?"

"No, he told me our sophomore year of high school."

"Who else knew?"

"Literally no one except his parents and me. That's why he didn't actually date. He always got nervous about having to eventually tell a serious girlfriend about it."

"His parents flightlings?"

"I…actually? I don't know. I never asked them. Probably, though. They never told me much about it in general, Mike just told me about his own experiences."

"Did he ever attack humans?"

"Hell no."

"Did he ever tell you about hunters?"

"Yeah, but he was really good about keeping his secret. Like I said, almost no one knew. Hunters never bothered him and he didn't worry about it."

Tony nodded. It made the situation even more sad to know that Michael never worried about being hunted. He never had to. Or at least, he shouldn't have had to. Because he wasn't a danger to anyone.

…

The doors to autopsy swished open and Gibbs strode over to where Ducky was working. He and Ziva had spent a long while talking to the parents of their victim, and while of course you'd never know to look at him, but it had been as heart wrenching for the lead agent as it could have been. He was hoping that his old friend would have evidence to help bring in leads, which was always a good way to brighten his day. "What've you got, Duck?"

"Ah, Jethro," the doctor greeted. "Good timing, as usual. We were just about to finish up."

Palmer went to the corner to take off his gloves and smock, and Gibbs took his place next to Ducky.

"Cause of death definitely the stabbing?"

"Oh yes, certainly. But this young man did not go down without a fight."

"How can you tell?"

Ducky lifted their victim's hand. "You see the blood around his fingernails? They are cut short, which is normal, but the blood caught around the edges was sent to Abigail's lab for testing, and it did not match that of young Mr. Coleman here."

"He tried to scratch at the attacker?"

"Not very successfully, it seems. If he'd had longer nails it might have been a more effective tactic. But with his strength, it was indeed enough to draw a little blood. Actually, more than a little. More blood that did not belong to him was on his pants and shoes, meaning he struggled for a bit and put up a decent fight."

The M.E. pulled the sheet back a bit to reveal the boy's upper arms and chest. "As you can see, there are a few scratches on his neck and arm here, which suggests that the killer tried to stab him several times, but his hand was forced away and he missed, catching the boy's shoulder and arm instead."

"But eventually he hit his mark," Jethro added.

"Yes. But the angle of the puncture wound is interesting."

"How so?"

The older man pointed close to the wound. "You see how it is oddly sized? And this skin almost looks like a pocket? The killer stabbed him at an angle, which we could also tell from the angle that his internal organs were punctured at. This tearing around the skin here also suggests that the blade used was serrated."

"So there's a struggle, the killer is able to get behind him somehow, and then reach around to stab him in the chest."

"Right. The only thing that doesn't make sense to me is the fact that this would have been impossible to do if the boy's wings were out, which I assume they absolutely had to be. They were out when he died, and they were removed post-mortem. And with the same serrated blade that was used to stab him."

Gibbs looked at the body on the table, lost in thought, before something occurred to him. He looked up. "Palmer. Come over here."

Jimmy wasn't nearly as frightened as he'd once been of the senior agent, but he wasn't about to ask any questions when Gibbs gave a command.

As the assistant ME walked over, Jethro positioned him to face the wall, and he stood next to the younger man, facing the other way.

"So Coleman and his attacker are probably passing each other. Coleman's jogging, the attacker is too."

Gibbs then slowly and carefully took Palmer by the shoulders and spun him into a hold, where he was faced away from Gibbs, but Gibbs pretended to hold him close with one arm, an invisible knife held up in the other against Jimmy's throat. Palmer let this happen but his nervousness was not at all concealed.

"The killer gets him in a grip for a second and tries to stab him but instead catches him in the arm and shoulder."

"If this person is human and not a flightling himself, he must be a particularly strong fellow to be able to stop this young man in the momentum of his running and take him on in close combat," Ducky noted.

"He probably caught him by surprise too," Palmer said, though it came out almost like a croak.

"Right. And then Coleman fights back, using his strength to puncture this guy's arm with his fingers. Which is why the blood fell on his pants and shoes."

"That does make sense," the elderly ME agreed.

"Would this stab immediately kill him?"

"Not quite. It would only take a few moments since he cut critical arteries, but it wouldn't be instantaneous."

"So he stabs him, they separate, and in a last ditch effort, Coleman's wings come out in self defense, but he's not able to fight, and he falls."

"At which point the killer would have time to gather himself and catch his breath, and then he removes Mr. Coleman's wings. Which would have taken a bit of time with just a hand blade, no matter how serrated it was. And then he makes off with the weapon and wings, and leaves the body to be found."

Gibbs released Palmer, who sighed in relief. "I think I'm going to go get some coffee. I'll be back," the assistant excused himself.

Ducky watched him go, a small smile on his face. "He's had a bit of a day."

"We all have," Jethro smirked, then he took a long breath and nodded, gathering his thoughts. "Thanks, Duck," he finished and headed for the elevator.

….

When Gibbs got back to the bullpen, he called his agents to attention with one of his most common phrases.

"What've you got?"

"Michael Coleman's parents are both flightlings. Only one of them, his father, serves. Lieutenant Commander Coleman did not know of any other flightlings in the military. He'd heard of CPO Moore's death but did not know he himself was a flightling," Ziva stated for the benefit of Tony and McGee, since Gibbs had been with her to collect this information.

"Did they say how long he'd been a flightling?" Tim asked. As much as he wanted to, he didn't ask anything else about the Coleman family. He just wanted to know what kind of family they were. What kind of flightlings they were.

"Michael has been a flightling almost since birth. Which makes sense, since his parents would of course have to hold him and it is initiated through touch. His parents say they do not hunt and neither did their son."

"Makes sense. I saw some feathers around the kid's room. They weren't gray or black," Tony added. "Roommate knew and said that only he and the Colemans knew the secret."

McGee then added the forensic evidence he'd found with Abby, and it matched up perfectly with Gibbs' information gleaned from the young man's autopsy.

"So we have an idea of the weapon, and we evidence of how the scenario played out, but no suspects or motive," Ziva noted.

"Well the roommate said the kid went on late-night, or early-morning runs almost every day. And it was almost always the same route. Whoever killed him must've had a plan in order to catch Coleman by surprise, which means he knew the kid's schedule and followed him to the park," Tony supplied.

Gibbs turned to his junior agent. "McGee, we got security tapes from the apartment building?"

"Yeah, while you guys were out I called the landlord and he said he'd email me last night's footage. It should be here by now…" Tim sat at his desk and after a minute, the blurry footage was on the flatscreen for everyone to see.

The camera only showed the front of the building, but it was enough for the agents to see a blurry figure that was definitely Michael Coleman leave through the front door, take a minute to finish stretching and then putting in his earbuds and taking off on his usual route. The video kept playing, and at first it seemed like nothing else would happen. But then a few moments later a large, windowless van that had been parked on the street came to life, its lights flicking on in the darkness. It slowly pulled away, heading in the same direction their victim had.

"Well that's never good," Tony muttered, taking out his cellphone. He looked through his notes from the day and found the number he was looking for, at which point he called the building's landlord.

The rest of the team continued to watch the security footage. Tim even rewound the video to see if anyone could catch a glimpse at the van's license plates. But no matter how much he tried to zoom and enhance the picture, the cheap little CCTV camera was not high-definition enough to make out a single number or letter.

DiNozzo finished his call and stood back up. "Landlord says that there's only one tenant in the building he knows of that drives a van, and he works at a privately owned butchery that serves a lot of restaurants in the area."

"That's a good place to get a knife," McGee noted.

"And get this- they guy lives in the apartment across from Coleman's. He's at work now."

The agents all went to their desks to grab their guns and badges and headed to the elevator.

In less than an hour, they were at the butchery in question. It was set up like a large scale plant would be, despite the building being relatively small: the offices were in front, and an attached back of the building that was far more industrial in appearance suggested that this was where the more grisly work was done. Of to the side of the parking lot was a fenced in area, where about a dozen large, windowless delivery vans were corralled. They all had a neat, trendy script emblazoned on the sides with the name of the business, but such details had been indistinguishable from the blurry security camera footage, so there was no way of proving whether one of those vans was the one that had followed Michael Coleman the night before.

The team went in through the front office and asked the receptionist at the front desk about their suspect. She then pointed them down the hall towards the back of the building, and after turning some corners and going through some doors, the NCIS agents entered a second department that had its own secretary in front, posted at her desk.

She was a bit less accommodating.

"He's busy in the back, doing inspections. If you need to speak with him, you can make an appointment-"

"It will take just a second. I'm sure he can spare that long for a murder investigation," Tony said, rattling the woman.

"Oh…well-" she sputtered.

"In the back, you said?" DiNozzo asked as Gibbs passed her desk and started down the large, brightly-lit hall, Ziva and McGee close behind.

"Wait!" she stopped them. She realized that the four agents were not going to listen to her, and that making trouble for them would most likely look bad on her and her bosses. "He's in the refrigerated room. If you're going in, you at least," she eyed Ziva, "have to wear a hairnet."

She got some out of a box in her desk and handed them to the Israeli agent, who stretched the mesh over her head and made sure that all of her ponytail was inside. Tony, and even Tim, had to work not to snicker at the sight before putting theirs on. When everyone was ready, the woman stepped in front of Gibbs and led them down the hall.

"He'll be just through here," the secretary said, waving them through into the large, warehouse-style room where meat was rinsed, cut, rinsed again, and then stored. Several employees moved down the aisles, inspecting their products and doing any necessary work.

Row upon row of enormous slabs of meat were hung, suspended above the ground, awaiting their final destination. As soon as the refrigerated air hit him, Tony was ready to make a reference to Rocky or any of its sequels. It would be worth the inevitable glare from his boss. However, the joke died on his lips the moment he turned and saw McGee's face.

Tim's eyes were not quite dinner plates, but they were just a bit too wide to look normal. His face had gone a deathly shade of white and his jaw was clenched. Anyone who didn't know him might have guessed that he simply had an issue with the smell of raw meat. But DiNozzo could see his friend's nostrils flaring, saw Tim's effort to control his reaction at being in a room filled with chains and hooks and knives and blood.

"McGee," he mumbled, hoping that calling the younger man's attention to him, and away from the sight in front of them, would bring him back to reality. But Tim's jaw just seemed to clench even harder before he turned to his friend. Fear and pain were poorly concealed in his eyes and for half a second, DiNozzo wondered if McGee knew where he was. Gibbs and Ziva turned the moment they'd heard Tony speak, hearing something in his tone that claimed their attention. When they saw Tim's expression, both immediately caught up to what was happening. Ziva acted fast, putting a hand on McGee's forearm and discreetly leading him out of the room. It was only once a nearby door to the alley outside had shut behind the two younger agents that Tony and Gibbs relaxed and shared a look. They each knew what the other was thinking- they were both trying to beat back the memories of that night that Tim had been tortured so severely, had come so close to death….Their own memories of the night were nauseating enough that Tony looked back at the large hanging cuts of meat with a new disgust. Nevertheless, they had a job to do. The sooner they did it, the sooner they could get out of there. No one else in the room had even noticed the incident, it had happened so fast, so without a word they went to find their suspect.

It wasn't until the door was shut behind him and he felt the warm air that McGee allowed himself to breathe again. He gasped for a moment, ripping off his hairnet, his breaths coming out ragged and fast. Ziva took her own hairnet off and watched him double over slightly to catch his breath, doing nothing but glancing around to make sure they had the privacy in this alley that Tim needed. When he straightened up, he avoided her gaze and the two stood there in silence for a few uncomfortable minutes.

"Are you alright, McGee?" Ziva finally asked, and he knew she wasn't just talking about his respiratory issues.

"I am now," he said, pretending that she was indeed only talking about his breathing. "Thanks, Ziva. I wasn't…I didn't think it would…"

He let his words hang in the air, not completing the thought.

"How could you know? I'm assuming you don't frequent places like this." When he didn't answer, she pressed on. "Have you talked to anyone, McGee?"

She expected him to completely stonewall her, but he did answer. Sort of.

"I did the psych eval when I got my job back. They said I was fine."

She was going to point out that he couldn't have possibly spoken about all that had actually happened with the staff psychologist, but decided against it. "Maybe you are fine. But you have been looking tired and stressed recently. Have you been having nightmares?"

"That was all months ago," he said, and she noticed how he referred to events she hadn't even mentioned. She also noticed that he didn't answer her question.

"It can take several months after a trauma for mental effects to set in."

"I'm fine, Z."

Ziva opened her mouth, ready to argue on this issue of his well-being, but something in Tim's expression told her to drop it. He just looked…tired. Exhausted, really. And completely unable to have this conversation at that moment. She wrestled with herself over what to do for a few more minutes, but it wasn't long before the door to the alley opened and Gibbs and Tony appeared.

"Anything?" McGee asked, surprised at how quickly this interview had gone.

"No, he's got an alibi. He was at his girlfriend's house across town and took an Uber to work this morning. His app proved it. Security cameras and records also showed that all the vans stay in the lot until it's time to deliver during the day. So it wasn't the van we saw," DiNozzo answered. Gibbs didn't even acknowledge the question, instead going right up to McGee and staring him down. Years ago, Tim would have thought this was an intimidation tactic, a reprimanding stare. It was still a little unsettling, but he knew better now. The boss was looking him over, examining his face for any further distress. A quirk of the older man's eyebrows and a small nod was question enough, and his agent answered with a nod of his own. It was clear that Gibbs didn't believe his agent'sunspoken response, but didn't push it, instead turning to find the car.

McGee gulped, knowing that his boss was going to be keeping a closer eye on him for the time being. He followed behind Gibbs without a word. Behind Tim, Tony and Ziva shared a look.