On the Friday after Thanksgiving, Tim manages to get stuck working. He doesn't know quite how he was roped into coming into the office, but thankfully, it is an easy day. He would like to think he'd be on call with his old team if he were still a field agent. While the rest of the city is trapped in a tryptophan induced coma after too much Thanksgiving turkey, Tim is protecting the NCIS networking against any looming threats.

Thankfully, there isn't much to do on Black Friday. No one tries to access any of the agency's databases. No one bothers the official NCIS website. Tim figures there might be a slowdown this time of year with the holidays. Even dirtbags want to eat turkey and pumpkin pie and spend time with grandma.

For once, Tim leaves just after five. He can't remember the last time he left work at a reasonable time. He shuts down his workstation before collecting his things into his laptop bag. After being suspended, he has started to leave less personal objects at the office. That way it's easier for the day he calls it quits.

He still hasn't mentioned this new habit to the agency therapist. He has had more than enough to fill their biweekly meetings with his issues between Tony and Gibbs and everything that happened with Ziva. They talk and talk and talk. It should be helping—and maybe it is—but he can't really tell. His therapist challenged him to talk through his feelings with Gibbs, but he hasn't worked up the nerve yet. He was supposed to talk to Tony too and they did, in their own way.

Tim slings his laptop bag across his body before heading towards the elevators. Cybercrimes is largely deserted with only a few agents in the office today. As he leaves, one of them offers a distracted wave. He waves back, but the agent doesn't even notice.

As Tim heads into one of the elevators, he hits the button for the garage. The doors close and the scent of wood shavings and brewed coffee tickles his nose.

"McGee," a rough voice says.

Tim whirls around to find Jethro Gibbs in the corner of the elevator. Gibbs holds a coffee cup in hand and wears a bemused smile on his face. Before the elevator even moves, Gibbs reaches out to hit the emergency stop button. The lights go down low, the alarm a distant drone in the background. In a way, it's oddly comforting like coming home after a year at sea.

Tim licks his lips, sighs. His therapist told him that if he didn't confront his past, it would come back for him. And so, here it is like a car that's speeding right at him. He slides closer to his boss—his former boss.

"What are you doing here, Boss?" Tim asks.

He cringes at his use of the word, but Gibbs doesn't correct him. If he keeps calling Gibbs boss, the older man will never accept that Tim isn't coming back.

Gibbs just looks expectantly at Tim.

"I'm not coming back," Tim says.

"I know," Gibbs replies.

Tim blinks, clearly confused. "Then why are you here, Boss?"

"Needed to see you, McGee." Gibbs checks him over before nodding. "Remind you about Rule Five."

"'You don't waste good'? I remember that, but why are you telling me now?"

Sipping his coffee, Gibbs allows the silence to stretch as if it makes the point for him. Tim stares at him, head tilted and lips set in a tight line. When he shrugs helplessly, Gibbs half-smiles.

"Thought you'd figure out that staying down here breaks the rule, Tim."

The infrequent use of his first name gives Tim pause. He carefully considers what Gibbs said before he rubs at the back of his neck. In the end, he shakes his head.

"You and Tony didn't believe me when I said I didn't stop listening." He looks away, sighing. "I know it isn't the case, but it still feels like you left me to deal with Ziva on my own."

"Only because you never told me."

"I know." Tim presses his hand against his eyes. "But what was I supposed to do? We'd just gone into a terrorist cell to save her. We almost died saving her. You killed a man to bring her home, Gibbs. And then, she starts threatening me. Was I supposed to tell you that was all for nothing?"

Gibbs stays quiet.

"We went through hell for her, Boss." Tim is rubbing at his hairline now. "How was I supposed to tell you that everything we went through was for nothing?"

If Tim expects some kind of big speech from Gibbs, he doesn't get it. Instead, Gibbs silently presses his hand against the younger man's shoulder. Tim doesn't shy away from the touch, but he leans into it.

Tim's voice is a whisper when he admits: "I didn't think you would believe me about everything Ziva does….did. Everything Ziva did." He glances over with wide, haunted eyes. "Would you have believed me, Boss?"

Gibbs squeezes Tim's shoulder. "I don't know because you never gave me the chance to find out."

That makes Tim shuck off his bag and shrug away from Gibbs. He paces around the elevator like a caged animal. He locks his hands at the base of his head and looks at the ceiling. There is a torrent of emotion rising in Tim's gut. Angry, he should be angry. He wants to be angry. But in the end, there isn't anger left. All he knows is resignation and disappointment.

He stops short before asking: "What would you have done?"

Gibbs sets his jaw. "If you came to me, I would have looked into it."

"And?" Tim leans forward.

"If it was true, I would have arrested her myself."

Tim's heart twists a little deep in his chest. He touches his hand to the bridge of his nose, careful to keep his expression hidden from Gibbs. The realization that he hadn't needed to experience everything he went through slams into him like a suckerpunch. Tim's head spins. Woozy, he leans against the wall.

"Did she hurt you?" Gibbs asks.

Tim's entire body goes rigid. Then, he nods. Eventually, he admits shakily: "Yeah, for a long time."

Gibbs swallows as if trying to keep his anger in check. "And you still never came to me. Why?"

"I don't know." Tim's expression is caught somewhere between remorse and horror. "I guess I didn't know how to say the words. I didn't know how to admit what Ziva was doing. I've a field agent for G-d's sake and after it went on for a while, it just felt like it had been going on for too long. Like if I told you ten, you'd be disappointed in me for letting it happen."

"You've never disappointed me," Gibbs says quietly.

Tim sighs. "I still can't come back."

"I know."

When Tim starts toward the emergency stop button, Gibbs shakes his head. Tim freezes, hand poised over the button. He raises his eyebrow, but the look on Gibbs' face makes him drop his arm.

"Did I ever tell you about my old partner?" Gibbs asks.

Tim tilts his head. "Mike Franks? The one who calls you Probie?"

Gibbs nods.

"Yeah, a few times. What about him?"

"He didn't trust me once." The way Gibbs says it piques Tim's interest. "He misplaced a box of evidence and never told me. He thought I'd tell the brass."

Tim shakes his head. "This is different than lost evidence. Way different."

Gibbs shrugs. "It broke the chain of evidence. We almost had a murder case thrown out. Do you know who the last agent was to sign that box out?"

Tim thinks about it for a long moment. "You?"

Gibbs raises his coffee cup as if to say you go it. "I spent two days looking for it. Found it in the back of one of the pool cars. Mike didn't tell me what happened."

The silence lingers.

"I almost got fired." Gibbs nods to himself. "Mike should've told me."

Tim stays quiet.

"But he didn't run because he screwed up." Gibbs keeps his eyes fixed on the door. "Rule Forty-five."

"'Clean up your own mess'?" Tim repeats from memory.

Gibbs nods in response. Tim lets the silence stretch because he doesn't know what to say.

"If you wanna take the easy way out, stay here," Gibbs says. "The job's still yours 'til Monday."

Tim starts, "I'm – "

"Not coming back." Gibbs looks away. "Got it."

When Gibbs hits the emergency stop button, the elevator kicks back to life. Gibbs stares at a spot on the elevator door. Tim studies the top of his shoes, but he keeps an eye on Gibbs.

Gibbs makes a face. "Talk about a damned shame, Tim."

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Tim heads down to his workstation in Cybercrimes. After a weekend spent gaming on his newly replaced computer, he isn't as excited to dive back into cyberspace as he usually is. He settles into his work, checking his e-mails and determining if there is yet another attack on the NCIS website. Thankfully, all is quiet and he manages to slip into a few case requests that Barrows sent down over the weekend. E-mail verification and checking bank account records and a remote access to fix something on Steve Barrows' desktop.

Another Windows update problem. Great.

Time gets away from Tim like it often does. It could be mid-morning or maybe even after lunch when it happens. He slides his chair over to the printer, grabs a printout that is headed upstairs to Barrows, and back to his computer in one fluid motion.

When he reaches his computer, he doesn't stop in time. His knee connects with the tower with a loud thwack. The lightening bolt ignites from his knee down his leg and his vision goes out for moment. Before he can stop himself, he yelps, "Ye-ouch!"

Not even a second later comes the ever-present, "Shhhh!"

Hunching his shoulder, Tim says, "Sorry."

That earns him another, more drawn out, "Shhhhh!"

For some reason, it makes Tim angrier than he's ever been. It begins with a spark before he burns with a rage he hasn't felt in years. He jumps to his feet, readying to face whoever has been shushing him for the entire time he's been down here. He just can't take it anymore. He works his hands into fists and tries to determine where the sound is coming from. Anger—or any emotion—is good, his therapist keeps telling him. He is supposed to feel something other than the dark, dull emptiness he has felt since Ziva David ripped his life apart.

Tim stands there, almost challenging the shusher to try him again. To push him to that breaking point that he has felt simmering just below the surface for months. And yet, there is nothing staring back at him other than a sea of computer monitors and pale, blank faces. Empty shells of agents working on their computers.

Raw panic quickly replaces the anger in his core. It slowly grips him with tendrils of fear-like fingers that close around his chest. Now, he can scarcely breathe. He sees what he'll transform into soon. No, he sees what he has already become. A robot, toiling away and working himself to death.

Tony was right. I can't waste away down here for another thirty years.

He tries to swallow, but his heart is wedged in his throat.

I'm a field agent.

His stomach clenches.

I. Am. A. Field. Agent.

And he bolts, tripping and stumbling over his feet he goes. He leaves behind everything he keeps in his workstation. His phone, his laptop, his wallet. He'll get everything later because if he's lucky and if he's in time, he can get back to the bullpen before Gibbs files the paperwork to replace him.

He should call the therapist right now, but that can wait too. It isn't important. None of it is. Right now, the only thing that's important is getting back to the bullpen while Gibbs still wants him there. While Tony still wants him there. While they still have a chance to be a team. Tim wants that piece of himself that he gave up on back. He wants to be himself again.

The therapist is right. I need to leap without a net because I deserve to be myself again.

He sprints through the sub-basement. His shoes slap against the thin carpet, his chest heaves with exertion. Only a few months chained to a desk down here and he is already out of shape. If he makes it back to his job, he'll go to the gym every single day.

He is almost to the elevators when he hears it again.

"Shhhhh!"

It only makes him run faster.

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

After their talk in the sub-basement, Tony doesn't bother Tim again. He played his hand, leveling the most brutal honesty that he could. There is nothing left for Tony to say. So, for once in his life, he says nothing. On the Monday after Thanksgiving, the team works the case they caught on Sunday night. A Marine got blown away during a family dinner over the last turkey drumstick. There is a lot of finger-pointing from the family members and if they weren't mostly enlisted personnel, it would be Metro's problem.

Tony is the one back into the Navy Yard, but that's only because he stayed behind. While he pours over the crime scene photos—a Jackson Pollock style affair of blood splatter and a corpse with all the fixings against a turkey dinner—Tony half-expects Tim to come striding through the elevator as if he never left the team. Only Gibbs and Tyler Brahe arrive.

Sliding into the position beside Tony, Gibbs holds his coffee limply at his side. They might be facing the plasma screen, but their eyes are fixed on Tim's desk. Since Tim's absence, Brahe has added her touch to the space with a hot pink coffee mug and a stack of books and a plant Tony believes is fake.

Gibbs sighs. "Gotta file the paperwork."

Tony just raises his eyebrows. He hums the melody to Que Sera, Sera before breaking into a few lines of the song. When Gibbs stares at him questioningly, Tony merely shrugs.

"Never took you as Doris Day fan," Gibbs says.

Tony turns to face him. "I didn't think you knew who she was, Boss."

There is a barely there smile before Gibbs strides back to his desk. He sits for a moment, digging through the errant papers, before discovering what he's looking for. He barely has a chance to put it down before his phone rings. After he answers, Gibbs' eyes do that crinkly thing they do when they catch a break.

Tony holds his breath. Tilts his head.

For a moment, he felt like he was coming up for air. He broke the surface, took a breath, and now, he'll be diving back into the depths until their dirtbag is arrested and their reports filed.

As Gibbs hangs up, he says, "Booking just finished."

And just like that, they fall into their respective roles and dive right back into the case. There is forensics and interviews and sifting through evidence. The morning drags through lunch until it's sometime in the late afternoon. Gibbs just finished grilling a Marine who might've shot his brother over poultry.

I wish I had a joke for it, but it would be fowl.

As they head back to the bullpen, Tony stops short at the sight of the person at Brahe's desk. Well, he guesses that it isn't Brahe's anymore.

Tim McGee sits at his desk, hands folded and face set in an awkward smile. His cheeks are ruddy as though he just sprinted a few miles. He might be back, but he seems like he doesn't want to make a big deal out of it. He is acting like he has been there all along.

"I hear we have a case," Tim says.

Tony looks him over. "We do."

"How's it case going?" Tim asks.

Tony half-smiles. "Fowl."

Taken aback, Tim blinks slowly. He purses his lips, a question evident on his face. Before he can ask, Brahe stalks into the bullpen. She is on her way to her desk, but she ends up plowing into Tony's back. Her eyes dance between Tim to Tony to the empty surface of what should be her desk.

"Where's my plant?" she bleats.

Tim points at Ziva David's old desk. "Over there."

At that, she smiles. "Thanks. My plant will like it over there. Better light. Nice to see you again, McGee. Are you back for good now?"

Tim seems to soak up the view. "Yeah, I am."

"Those trips to the bathroom, Tony?" Brahe asks.

Tony just glances at Tim and that makes Brahe smile.

"That's what I figured," she says.

Tony just stands there, still slightly dumbfounded that Tim returned.

"Welcome back, McWayward," Tony says.

The nickname makes Tim smile broadly. Before Tony can say anything else, Gibbs swoops into the bullpen with his coffee cup. He pauses to check over Tim before nodding. Tony should be slinking over to his own desk, but with the look on Gibbs' face, he is afraid to even move. Gibbs looks like he is about to be nice.

Gibbs drops his voice when he says, "You cleared to carry, McGee?"

Tim shakes his head. "Not yet, Boss. I'm on desk duty until I pass the psych evals."

"Computers and helping Abby 'til then." Gibbs nods. "Everything's going good, Tim?"

Tim's smile turns brittle. "I'm here."

And in the end, that's the best outcome Tony could hope for. They can figure out the rest, but with Tim back, the team is whole again.

Ziva didn't win. We did.

"Get to work," Gibbs says. "Tony will catch you up."

"On it." Then he makes an upset face. "Look, Boss I just wanted to say thanks."

"Thank Tony," Gibbs says flatly.

And with that, Gibbs heads to his desk without another word. Tim glances at Tony, his mouth pulled into a o and his eyebrows raised. Tony just holds his hands out as if to say Ta-da.

Tony cracks a shit-eating grin. "'Now, the most important thing is, we have to work as a team, which means: you do everything I tell you.'"

Tim's eyes narrow. "Is that a new rule that I don't know about? Because it doesn't sound like one."

"It's from Chicken Run," Tony says, laughing. "Only the best movie in which barn animals remake an American classic. I personally prefer The Great Escape, but you still can't beat Mel Gibson as a rooster."

Tim makes a face. "I'll take your word for it."

"Nah, you'll have to watch it."

Tim rolls his eyes before his expressions turn serious. Thankfully, Gibbs is attempting to type on his computer with his old hunt and peck style while Brahe rearranges her new desk. She mutters to her plastic plant in hushed tones as if it's a baby. If Tony didn't know better, he would think she was sneaking glances at their fearless leader.

When Tim opens his mouth, Tony knows he is about to launch into a heartfelt speech.

At that moment, Tony's phone rings shrilly. Tony holds his finger up to tell Tim to hold on a minute and thankfully, he is saved by the phone call.

With a helpless shrug at Tim, he answers it. "DiNozzo."

The voice from the other end is one that Tony's been dreading. "Agent DiNozzo, it's Schuyler Harris. We need to meet."