A/N: This is pure, dark drabble. I wrote this because I'm in quite a bit of pain today and I needed to get my mind off it all. Thanks for Bravo My Lady Grace for giving me the inspiration for this one.
The pain left long ago, leaving just a feeling of emptiness. Pain killers gave way to bourbon, and the numbness drags on. Bottles piling on in the kitchen, around the sink, like so many mementoes of her absence.
I guess she'll call when she's ready.
That was a stupid thing to say. She was... she is always ready. Unlike the rest of the world around her, she always knew what she wanted, what she should do. The boundary between life and duty becoming more and more blurred until they form but one thing. Ziva's life was all honour and duty. Even in defeat, she kept her head high and ploughed on, knowing that renouncing her freedom was the price to pay for a life of duty.
He gulps down another mouthful of the amber liquid, burning his gut and numbing his spirit. Like her, he always puts on a mask for the rest of the team, the rest of the world. Knowing Ziva was an impossible feat and getting inside of the mind of Tony DiNozzo was an equally unattainable objective.
I'm tired of pretending.
They were both tired of pretending being those characters they were not, living a life, their life as if acting in a never-ending play.
Diner-theatre for one. When does the curtain go down.
Well, it was down, at last. With Ziva gone, the last trace of humanity in his green eyes has gone, replaced by this mask he had worn for so long it turned out to be a second skin. Inside, his soul is
Her absence had dug an unfathomable hole. A gigantic gap which kept him apart from the rest of the team, the rest of the world. He will keep pretending, keep the mask up, because he has forgotten how to be himself. He can't lead a normal life anymore. What was normal anyway?
As always, he misses her. The longer she is away and the more her absence hurts him. He remembers the first time he saw her, with her hair wrapped together and her combat trousers. Confident, bordering onto arrogance.
Pretending was so much easier then. Her duty was paramount and no ties in her life were strong enough to break through that armour of self-belief she had forged over the years.
Over time she grew softer, too soft maybe. She realised that a life of duty wasn't an end in itself. That the one life she had had to be worth more than just fulfilling missions and killing targets.
Over time he grew wiser, more serious... Older. Looking over her. Seeing more than meets the unacquainted eye. Finding in his life a new sense of duty. And now that his duty is gone, he is left reeling in her absence. Fading.
He holds the remnants of a picture once treasured, creased beyond recognition, remembrance of times past. Happier times. As time flies, he forgets her smile, her face, the way she moved and the way she brought to life everything she touched. He remembers her, and yet he can't remember, visualise, bring back memories, conversations of a not so distant past.
He remembers her telling him that some things in life are never as big as the sense of loss they leave behind them. You don't know what you've got till it's gone.
He knows she won't call. Why would she? Acting for the better good, out of duty, destroying his career and his partnership, he knows he's been mistaken all along. He knows that, unbeknownst to him, things are happening. Agents are travelling, people are tortured, killed or spared, just for her sake. He knows he's not in the know. And somehow, he doesn't want to be. Because he's not the man he once was. He knows he's done his duty and, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, and one gets left behind, he realises it's not enough.
He needs a reason to keep living, believing. And he knows those are behind him, like a tiny trail of breadcrumbs. And he knows that he won't find his way back. Because it's too late, because those circling high above, preying above them, control it all.
Like a pawn on a chess table, he's been sacrificed for an ulterior motive. That's the name of the game. Diplomacy.
He's fading. Slowly. His mind briefly connecting with a soul, somewhere in an unknown location, sending an unspoken prayer to anyone who will listen. Because he cared. Because he still cares. But he's powerless.
Tomorrow morning, he drag himself back to work, will sit at his desk and shuffle through paper like it's his life's ambition. He will smile and joke and maybe glance at the empty desk. And inside he will fade a bit more.