On Friday morning, Tim McGee heads back into the office. He should be on medical leave until Monday, but he can't stand another day of staring at his bedroom ceiling. It might only have been four days since he was assaulted on Monday afternoon, but it feels like a lifetime.

The doctors said he was fine. Other than the mild concussion, a deep cut on his head, and bruised right side of his face. They kept him in the hospital overnight for observation, poking and prodding him with every test they could think of. It could have been worse, the doctors said. The hospital discharged him with instructions to sleep as much as he could and avoid anything with a screen for a week.

Back in his apartment, he didn't know what to do since his entire life revolves around computer screens. He took to his uncomfortable bed, biding his time as he watched the sunlight make its daily pilgrimage across his ceiling. By Thursday afternoon, his head no longer ached and he felt as much like himself as he did before the entire ordeal. He was also crawling up his own walls. The black purple bruise on the right side of Tim's face has given way to a sickly, yellow green. He feels much better than he looks.

So, he decided that it was time to head back. Against the doctor's advice, but on his own. Pushing himself like Gibbs taught him because it feels like the right thing to do.

As Tim takes the elevator up to the bullpen, a strange thought floats into his addled brain. He hadn't really thought about it until now. He was too busy counting how many sunlight rays could filter through his blinds at one time or how many steps his upstairs neighbor takes to cross his apartment.

No one called me after I got out of the hospital.

It's a strange thing to suddenly realize that no one had bothered to check on him or even ask if he was alright. He figures they must have been busy, must have been searching for those responsible. He knows Ziva was suspended. Gibbs told him that much at the hospital.

Tim strides into the bullpen, deciding that someone—Tony—will catch him up to speed after he gets settled. Just before he reaches his desk, he notices the stranger in his seat. He stops short, grip on his backpack failing as his bag slides to the floor. It lands right on his foot.

There's a woman, dark-haired with leonine features, in his desk chair. When she catches him staring, her shoulders tighten. Her mouth pulls into a tiny o.

"Agent McGee?" she asks.

"Yeah, hey." He tilts his head. "Um, who are you?"

"Agent Tyler Brahe." She says it like he's supposed to know who she is. "And before you get upset, I didn't touch it. It was like that when I got here, I swear."

He blinks slowly. "Touch what?"

When she leans to the side, he catches a glimpse of a plastic-wrapped lump on the floor. His desktop tower is mummified in an evidence bag.

Grabbing his backpack, he slings back over his shoulder. His grip tightens around his backpack strap. Suddenly, he is a stranger in what should be his own home. She merely stares at him as if she doesn't know quite what to do. And frankly, he doesn't either. Brahe must be the TAD for his medical leave, but he doesn't have the authority to send her packing. Hell, he doesn't even know if he has the authority to ask her to move. He probably could, but it wouldn't be polite.

From Tony's desk, there is the sound of someone clearing their throat. Tim looks over, shocked to see another stranger at Tony's desk. The man is dark-skinned and light eyed with the tackiest suit that Tim has ever seen. While he might not be as into fashion as Tony, Tim at least knows a fashion victim when he sees one.

His eyes dart to Ziva's where another man sits. This one is built like a racehorse, all lean muscle and bald-headed and long-faced.

And there's the problem of Gibbs. Right now, he is missing.

Everything about the bullpen is wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

For a moment, Tim wonders whether he wandered into the incorrect office. That could be the only explanation as to why everything is the way it should be, but not the way it should all at the same time. His doctor told him that he might have some bouts of confusion were normal after a concussion. However, heading into the wrong space and believing he should be there seems extreme.

The fashion victim at Tony's desk makes a quick phone call.

Brahe leans forward. "You don't look so hot, McGee. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Tim snaps.

Suddenly, the idea of returning to work, early and announced, seems like the worst idea he has ever had in his life. He is just about to make a run for it when Director Vance appears on the platform above them.

Vance stares down at Tim, eyes hard and expression unreadable. Tim looks forlornly at his poor computer, wrapped up like a common piece of evidence ready to be stored in the evidence garage for all eternity. Tim will probably never see it again.

What the hell is going on?

The slight tilt of Vance's head beckons Tim upstairs. Without bothering to see if Tim followed, Vance disappears from the landing. As if he's in someone else's body, Tim feels himself move up the stairs. Robotic. Mechanical. Not in control of his own movements.

He follows Vance into the director's office without saying a word. He feels like he might be in trouble, but he can't think of anything he did. Sure, he was attacked, but that really shouldn't count. He figured Gibbs would give him the cold shoulder for not being able to fight off two assailants while armed with ethernet cords, a computer mouse and three jump-drives. But that's just how Gibbs is. A man who can complete superhuman feats and not understand why mere mortals can't keep up.

I didn't think Vance would be pissed too.

Once they're in the office, Vance closes the door. It takes Tim a moment to register they aren't alone.

In one of the visitor's seats, there is a tall man in a beige suit. Even though he is seated, he almost seems to be at attention. Tim shoots him a curious glance.

When the man turns to face Tim, it draws attention to the left side of his face. Tim notices his milk-white eye and the deep scar etched into that side of his face. Despite himself, Tim's eyes widen. Just slightly, but it's enough for the man to catch. The man bobs a nod, obviously familiar with the reaction.

Tim looks away.

Vance slides behind his desk. After collapsing into his chair, he draws his fingers to his chest like a supervillain. His eyes are locked on Tim's rapidly flushing face.

"I'm surprised to see you back, Agent McGee," Vance says. "We weren't expecting you until next week."

Tim barks a nervous laugh. "I thought it'd be nice to get back to work. You know how it is. Being home."

Vance looks like he doesn't. "Are you sure you're ready?"

If there's ever a time to admit that he shouldn't be here, this would be it. Tim's eyes jump between Vance's nonplussed face and the scarred man's amiable smile. He could go home, disappear back into his bed where he counted how many seconds it took for the sunlight to change direction on his bedroom ceiling. He could admit defeat and just go home with his tail between his legs. He will still have to deal with this—whatever the hell this is—but it wouldn't have to be today. And maybe, he could do that if he were taught by anyone other than Gibbs.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," Tim says brightly. "Who were those people at my teams' desks?"

"TADs. Just until Agent Harris –" Vance gestures at the scarred man " –can finish his investigation."

Tim blinks slowly. "Investigation?"

"Into what happened during your assault."

Tim didn't realize until that moment that he didn't know exactly what happened. He was just being threatened by David Robins and his friend and then…he woke up in the hospital. Gibbs showed up at some point and stayed with him the first night. Gibbs had a lot of questions, but Tim isn't sure if he had any answers. That night is fuzzy around the edges. He was drugged out of his mind and he just…rambled. He knows Gibbs didn't care about the plot to The Lord of the Rings, but the older man just let him talk and talk and talk. That night, Gibbs mentioned Ziva had been suspended. But Tim never asked and Gibbs, he never said anything more than that one sentence.

Beside Tim, the scarred man turns towards him. He holds out his hand.

"Schuyler Harris, IA," he says.

Tim shakes it while staring intently at Harris' good eye. He smiles nervously because he is trying his absolute best to avoid staring at Harris' scar. At least, Tim wants to tell himself that's why he is anxious. He never was good with people. That's it. It's not because Internal Affairs is here. Absolutely, definitely not because Internal Affairs is here.

"Nice to meet you." Tim tries to sound like he means it.

"We need to discuss what happened on Monday," Harris says. "Is now a good time?"

Tim winces at the pounding beginning behind his right eye.

"Not right now," he says. "I mean, I just got back and my team…" It suddenly occurs to him that he doesn't know where they are. He looks at Vance. "Where is my team, Director?"

"Reassigned pending the investigation," Vance says. "DiNozzo is on desk duty with Barrows, Ziva is on suspension, and you are in Cybercrimes."

Opening his mouth, Tim is ready to explain the doctors' recommendations for computer screens. Yet, it's already too late because he said he was ready to be back.

"Will that be a problem?" Vance asks.

Tim presses his lips together. "Not at all."

"Good. Report to Simmons down in Cybercrimes. He wasn't expecting you, but he'll be grateful for an extra set of hands. The main site is currently being hacked – " Vance waves his hand dismissively as though he doesn't know or care what it means " – and its all hands on deck."

"What kind of attack?" Tim asks.

Vance looks as though Tim just asked about the mating rituals of penguins.

Tim's face blazes. "Yeah..."

Without needing to be told, Tim heads for the door. Maybe if he can sneak down to the sub-basement, he can avoid Harris long enough to figure out what is going on. Maybe he'll have enough time to figure out just what the hell happened on Monday.

I need to talk to Tony…

Tim is almost home free when Vance clears his throat.

"And Agent McGee?" he says.

Tim turns back. "Yes, sir?"

"Your weapon, please."

Tim rears back, blinking. "My weapon? I thought I wasn't…" The words in trouble don't make it out.

"It's Standard Operating Procedure for investigations involving Internal Affairs. You'll get it back at the conclusion of the investigation." Vance's smile is as forced as laughter on a sitcom. "And another thing, I'd like you to complete your interview with Harris before you leave for the day."

Tim feels the color drain from his face. "Absolutely."

Unclipping the holster from his belt, Tim places it, weapon and all, on Vance's desk. The isn't any ceremony or pomp, but he doesn't know what he expected. Tim is surrendering something he spent most of his adult life working for. The worst part is, he doesn't even know why it's being taken away. His eyes stay fixed on that lump of metal on Vance's desk.

"How about this afternoon, Agent McGee?" Harris speaks up. "That'll give you some time to get settled."

For an executioner set to lop off Tim's head, Harris sure sounds chipper. Tim tries to pretends it isn't bothering him but it's driving him crazy.

Tim forces a smile. "I'll make it work…"

"Great, it's a date then."

When Harris grins affably, his mouth lilts to the right side of his head. Tim reels back before averting his gaze back to the other side of the room.

He swallows hard, trying to move the lump settling in his throat.

I never should have come back today.

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

Sitting at his desk in Team Barrows' space, Tony DiNozzo actively ignores his cold case. Instead, he works at a doodle on his notepad where he was working out who exactly killed Petty Officer Miller. The sketch is of Tony himself as James Bond—Sean Connery, obviously, because he is the one true Bond—shooting Dr. No with a death ray. To the untrained eye, it might appear to be a random group of squiggly lines, but Tony knows exactly what it is. He adds another line of power from the death ray to make it even deadlier because it just doesn't look strong enough.

To himself, Tony drawls in his best Sean Connery accent, "'World domination. The same old dream. Our asylums are full of people who think they're Napoleon. Or G-d.'"

He activated his doodle death ray with a quiet, "Ka-chiiiiing," before adding even more lines as though he's sending a line straight through Dr. No's heart. His shot never manages to hit the target because a shadow darkens his nearly perfect drawing.

When Tony glances up, he is surprised to find Steve Barrows.

Standing beside Tony's temporary desk, Barrows looks worse for wear. His bald head and thin face are more sunburned than before his team caught their murder case. His light eyes are tired, but he manages to drum up an excited energy for Tony. That's just how Barrows is. If anything, he is never anything less than his agents' biggest cheerleader, spurning them forward with encouragement and praise and words like please and thank you and good work.

Tony has never missed Gibbs more in his life.

I don't know what to do with nice.

An exhausted smile settles on Barrows' face. "How's the case going, sport?"

"I'm not making much headway." Tony simply shrugs. "There's a reason that it's cold."

"Yeah." Barrows absently scratches behind his ear. "The Miller case has been bugging us for a few years now. I thought it might be good to get some fresh eyes on it. Maybe one day..."

Pressing his lips together, Tony glances down at the case file. When his eyes land on his doodles, a flush creeps across his cheeks. Barrows' gaze drops to the notepad, too. Tony manages to hide his drawing with his forearms. His smile is tight because he doesn't want Barrows to see it. Tony wants Barrows to believe he is a Very Special Agent who has been working very hard.

Barrows' eyebrows come together. "I'd love to hear your thoughts."

Those words make Tony's heart squirm in his chest. Gibbs would never say something like that. He wouldn't be supportive and kind and nice. Gibbs would never say that. He would just bark, "DiNozzo," and expect Tony to fill in the blanks.

Tony doesn't look up. He sighs.

"I don't know, Steve," he admits. "I'm stuck."

Tilting his head like a therapist might, Barrows perches himself on the edge of Tony's desk. He leans forward to give Tony his undivided attention as though he doesn't have a corpse warming up in autopsy, two team members clearing the murder scene, and a mountain of evidence to comb through.

"Is it the case?" Barrows waits a moment before dropping his voice: "Or is it that other thing?"

Tony swallows hard. "How much did Gibbs tell you?"

"Everything."

Tony looks at him, unconvinced.

"We're team leaders," Barrows says with a shrug. "We share things."

They don't.

Tony knows this because Gibbs would rather shoot himself in the foot than share things. Though, Barrows would likely need a reason to cover for Gibbs' team. Tony doubts someone's entire team could be reassigned or suspended without someone needing to explain it somewhere. So, Barrows probably knows what happened.

Tony starts, "Steve…"

Barrows shakes his head. "Don't 'Steve' me, Tony. I know it's hard to believe, but sometimes, your boss needs someone else to talk to. He can't exactly talk to you about you and your teammates, can he?"

"Fair point," Tony says. "But really, how much did he tell you?"

"Like I said, everything." Barrows counts on his fingers. "McGee got his cover blown because David turned off a listening device. IA isn't sure if you're involved yet. So, you're here. David is suspended, position pending review. And McGee will be in Cybercrimes when he's back. You're all out until IA is happy with their investigation. Did I miss anything?" Before Tony has a chance to say what's on his mind, Barrows beats him to it. "Oh yeah, the TADs for your team."

"How is he doing?"

Barrows tilts his head. "Gibbs is getting by."

The news makes Tony rub his hand against his forehead. He might as well be suspended right now with how Vance took his badge and weapon. He reported his teammates for a negative action, and it ended up biting him square in the ass.

"So, what's bothering you?" Barrows asks.

"It's the case," Tony lies.

Barrows nods. "I can see that."

Leaning further onto his desk, Tony looks up at Barrows' face. The man watches him encouragingly, arms crossed and mouth tilted slightly upward at the corners. Like he sees through Tony's bullshit.

"Sometimes you have to trust the process," he offers.

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Are we still talking about the Miller case?"

"If you want to be." Barrows' smile turns full-blown.

"Remind me about the process. It's been a while."

His tone is more biting than he intends, but Barrows takes it in stride. He laughs.

Barrows raps his knuckle on the file. "Rule out the obvious first. If that doesn't get you the answer, look into something that you wouldn't expect."

"And if that doesn't work?"

Barrows frowns at that before pointing to Tony. "Try something different."

Tony tilts his head. "So, I'm the something different."

"Help us, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope,'" Barrows says.

Tony's face lights up. "Star Wars."

"Don't get excited, Tony." Barrows laughs. "That's literally the only movie quote I know. Though I'm sure you probably have one, don't you?"

"You know what, I don't right now." Tony's face falls.

Barrows claps his hand on Tony's shoulder. "Then, we'll come back to it later. Now, let me take a look at that progress."

When Barrows pulls the notepad from under Tony's arm, the younger man can't pull it back quick enough. Barrows holds the notepad sideways, head tilting from one side to the other and back again.

"The guy who found the body," Tony blurts out.

Barrows looks up. "What?"

"The guy who found Miller's body," Tony says. "Did anyone ever look into him? He said he was walking his dog when he found the body."

Barrows tilts his head. "There wasn't any connection."

Suddenly, Tony is flipping through the case file. "No one mentions a dog in their report. Either the dog ran away or he never had one. It might be a long shot, but it could be worth looking into."

Dumbfounded, Barrows hands back Tony's notepad. Upside down, Tony's drawing looks a bit like an abstract version of the movie poster for Earth Girls Are Easy. He flips it back the right way, relieved to find James Bond is still ready to incinerate Dr. No.

Barrows slides towards his own desk. He jots down notes on a piece of printer paper before turning back to Tony. When he catches Tony staring, Barrows smiles tightly. Tony wishes he could match it.

Barrows starts, "Look, Tony. About that other thing…"

Tony nods as though to say, Bring on your unsolicited advice, Steve.

"Let Harris do his job," Barrows says.

"If we were talking about him, I'd ask how you knew him," Tony says.

Barrows sighs quietly. "We tango'd a few years back."

For some reason, Tony can't imagine Barrows ever being on IA's radar. The only way he could picture Harris involved with Barrows would be his team. That's the only thing that makes sense. Though, if Barrows was investigated by IA and lived to talk about it, there might be hope for Tony just yet.

"Yeah?" Tony channels his best Gibbs for more information.

Barrows smirks. "He's a good agent. He won't bury someone if they're innocent. So, I don't think you've got anything to worry about, but…"

And there's that word Tony hates all too much. An entire career can live or die in the word but.

Tony leans forward, eager for Barrows' advice now.

Barrows presses his lips together. "…keep your eyes and ears open. He can only dig so deep."