written: as an NFA Hangman Contest prize
rating: T
prompt: I was asked for a fic "about Tim being harried. I don't mean teased, rather that he is being rushed around and told to do too many things."
characters: Tim & the team; mostly Tim & Gibbs (non-slash)
genre: drama
words: approx. 2100

- - - - -

Disclaimer: I still own nothing of NCIS.

- - - - -

This is what I get, Tim thought that Thursday morning, two minutes after sitting down at his desk, for missing three days of work with the flu. There are 48 new work-related emails in my inbox, half requiring some action by me; there's the tech end of the case the team took on yesterday; and assistance requests for tech help on cases from the NCIS Camp Lejeune and Pensacola offices. He sighed.

You'd think they'd make things a little easier on someone who's not fully well yet. But no.

"Grab your gear!" Gibbs' order cut through Tim's reverie, although it took his antihistamine-fogged mind a moment to recognize it.

"McGee! Move it!" Gibbs thundered.

"Uh, yeah, boss. Coming." Tim grabbed his gun from his desk drawer, along with his coat and his swoop cap.

Gibbs saw Tim's discouraged look and swooped down on him. "You got a problem doing your job, McGee?" he said coolly.

"Not the assignments, it's just that there are so many of them," Tim said with more courage than he would have dared a few years ago.

That caused Gibbs to stop abruptly. Ever so softly he said, "If you're not capable of doing the job, I'll get someone else to do it."

Tim blushed. "No, I'll get it done, boss."

"Good," Gibbs said with unfriendly heartiness. "That's what I like to hear. Now get moving!"

- - - - -

They weren't out in the field for more than three hours, but by the time the team returned to NCIS, Tim had two more assistance requests, a note from Cynthia that she needed to see him to update something in his personnel file; a query from MTAC on something he'd done on a case that needed clarification before it went to trial; and, whoops, Intel wanted a piece of him, which they said would only take an afternoon. (Only!)

Tim sighed. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? He'd have to stay late tonight—very late. Probably very late tomorrow, as well. Thank heavens he'd driven to work today; he might be here until after the last Metro train of the evening ran.

He worked diligently all afternoon, mostly tuning out Tony's and Ziva's chatter. How is it that they're not overloaded with work?? Then he remembered that he'd been out sick for three days. How could that make so much difference? Regardless, it did.

At some point they left, and so did Gibbs. He didn't notice when they did. The squad room was almost still when he looked up; the second shift team was working quietly at their desks across the room, and the lights were dimmed for evening use. Seven twenty-one, by the clock. From a drawer Tim pulled out a packet of mac & cheese; ready to microwave. It wouldn't be a good dinner, but it would see him through.

When he finally left, it was just after two. He felt as tired as he had when the flu was just coming on.

- - - - -

Tim dragged himself into work on Friday; got there early to seize the day before it seized him. He opened the e-file on the Pensacola case, and worked on that, knowing that, in HQ's eyes, he was expected to work the local cases first, and the assistance requests in whatever free moments he had (though they were still to be completed within 10 working days!). After analyzing the data stream, blinking his hot eyes several times and taking longer than usual to think his way through it, he finally had an answer. It was typed up and emailed back to Pensacola just as Gibbs and the others came in.

"Gooooooood morning, Probie!" Tony called cheerfully. "Man, you look like hell." From Tony, this was not necessarily ever an expression of sympathy, and so Tim frowned.

"Do not come near me if you still have influenza, McGee," Ziva warned.

"I don't—"

"Don't get comfortable, next to McGee or otherwise," Gibbs warned. "We should have the warrant to search the Carson house in the next few minutes, and then we'll be on our way. McGee, gas the truck."

Tim hastened to do so, while swallowing his misery. Can't I get a few uninterrupted hours to get paperwork done???

- - - - -

They were away from NCIS for over seven hours. At least, Tim was; while sending Ziva and Tony back to HQ with a suspect and evidence, Gibbs had instructed Tim to canvas the neighborhood to see if anyone had seen the missing seaman. Of course, no one had. While recognizing the importance of the action, Tim was distressed that the task had fallen to him. Tony and Ziva aren't behind on their work. Why can't they be doing this?

It was almost 4 o'clock and the south-dwelling winter sun was casting long shadows when Tim returned to his desk. Absently, he patted the small blue-and-green Slinky that lived in the shade of his monitor stand. It never made any demands on him. He got down to work—which, first, meant a long report on his canvassing.

- - - - -

"McGee, we are going to Mulligan's for a drink, Tony and I. Are you coming with us?"

Tim looked up. Ziva was pulling on her coat; it was just after 6 and fully dark. Where had the time gone?? "Uh, thanks, but I have some things to finish up."

"Oh, don't be a party pooper, McGee," Tony teased. "It's Friday! Time to have some fun! Others from here will doubtless show up."

"Next week, maybe." They tended to go to this local bar most Fridays. Tim felt he was unlikely to miss anything.

"Awwww…Well, if you change your mind, Tech Boy, you know where we'll be." Tony and Ziva departed, and as last night, the lights dimmed and the bustle of the squad room ceased. Tim felt very much alone, and a bit sorry for himself.

- - - - -

He worked and worked, raiding the coffee machine until he swore it shuddered on seeing him coming. His efforts put a dent in his pile of work, but just that. One of the members of the second shift team stopped and gave him a kind word, and Tim smiled back at her through heavy-lidded eyes. When that team went off-shift, Tim was still working. He put his head down on his desk a moment at 4:30, when the ZNN channel did its daily Asian market report. Just a few seconds, then I'll get back up and…

- - - - -

"McGee. Wake up." A rough hand was shaking his shoulder. The voice was Gibbs'.

Tim came up blinking. Oh, no! Saturday morning; almost 8 o'clock! Daylight; though a fine snow was blowing outside.

"I came in to get my hat, and I find you out like a light at your desk. Were you here all night?" Gibbs asked in disbelief, though Tim didn't doubt he'd remembered what everyone was wearing yesterday. Well, his facial stubble probably also was a hint. "Why?" Gibbs pursued.

"I, uh, I didn't intend to be. I was just working on some stuff—"

"And it couldn't wait until Monday? Why not?"

Tim's heart ached. No point in lying. "Because there would be that much more of it. I'll work today and tomorrow, and—"

Gibbs cut him off with an upraised hand. "Come with me," he said, and headed for the elevator to the third floor, without stopping to look to see if Tim was following. He didn't have to. Gibbs knew his people.

At the locked door to Jenny's outer office, Gibbs put his hand on the palm plate and the door clicked open for him. "Close it," Gibbs said. Noting Tim's wide eyes at their being alone in the office, Gibbs said, "I sometimes come up here if I have to be in on a weekend. Nice and quiet here, and the Director doesn't mind. Much. Sit." He looked at Tim expectantly, but although Tim sat, words wouldn't come. He could only think of getting back to work.

To Tim's surprise, instead of a reprimand, Gibbs said, "Why, McGee? Why all the extra hours? Why is this so important to you?"

"It's my work, boss," Tim said, hardly believing the question. "It has to get done. I'm really far behind."

"Are you?" Gibbs asked, giving him an appraising look.

"Well…yes! I was out three days and I come back to an avalanche! That case we got this week, and the tasks in the email, and the assistance requests, and MTAC, and…it just never seems to end."

"It doesn't end," Gibbs agreed. "That's why they let us come in in the morning; to pick up where we left off. What is your priority workload?"

"Everything," Tim said sadly.

Gibbs got up and walked to the window. A glimmer of cold came through the window glass. "What would happen if you didn't get all your work done?"

"I'd get fired."

"You're sure of that?"

"Well, no, but—"

"There will always be work that we haven't gotten to, you and I. From time to time I go to the Director and complain about it, and sometimes some of it gets reassigned or dismissed, and sometimes it doesn't."

Tim considered. "You said, 'you and I'. What did you mean by that? Tony and Ziva have work, too; are you saying that…" he swallowed. "…that I'm not as good as they are?"

"No. Your teammates are different. DiNozzo has his own talents and can breeze through some of the work, partly because of his years as a cop. David has skills, too, but her mind is not on the long term with NCIS. At some point she'll probably return to Israel. She's not driven to succeed here, the way you are, as a career employee.

"I do see that you get a lot of work because I want to challenge you. Without challenge and growth, you can't advance. You have potential, McGee. With hard work, you can get just about anywhere. I could see you heading up Intel, if you wanted to go that route. Or MTAC, even. I just might live long enough to see you running NCIS."

Tim covered his nervousness and surprise with a little laugh. "I'd keep the orange walls. I actually like them."

"But you have to do better at some things in the short term," Gibbs said, looking at him sternly, now. "If you feel your work has really gotten out of hand, you need to tell me, so I can see what needs to be done."

Tim lowered his head. Here was the mixed-message that he'd feared. "But you didn't," he said to the floor. "I told you yesterday I was drowning, and you said if I couldn't get do the job, you'd get someone else."

Gibbs, too, studied the carpet. "Crap."

Abruptly, Tim rose and went to the door, determined to get away before the tears were visible. "I'm going back to work."

"Hey! HEY!" Gibbs slammed shut the door that Tim had just opened. He stared Tim down. "You want to know the real reason why you, and why I, get too much work? It's because the people who assign workloads are human. And they make mistakes. I make mistakes, too, so you just stop putting me on a pedestal, you hear me?! My mistake was not paring off some of your workload when you came back yesterday. I knew, or should have known, that you wouldn't be operating at 100 per cent."

"Okay. Okay." Tim did not want to be confrontational. He was too tired.

"No, it's not okay. I can't effectively manage you if you don't speak up, and keep speaking up, for your own needs. It's not a sign of weakness to admit that you need help."

Tim looked at Gibbs for a long moment. "I need help, boss," he said finally.

"I'm glad to hear that, McGee," Gibbs said with an expression halfway between a smile and a smirk. He put an arm around Tim's shoulders. "I know Ducky's in today. Let's pay him a visit, and see if he thinks you're really over the flu, are verging on pneumonia, or have just found a new allergy. I think you'll be taking more sick time next week."

"And when I come back?" Tim asked, suspicious.

"You'll have a clean slate."

"Really? Where will the work go?"

"I'll give it to DiNozzo. He doesn't do enough."

They walked out, chuckling.