Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or any of its characters. I make no money off of this story. All rights belong to CBS and its respective owners.
The title belongs to Robert Frost, from his poem "Acquainted with the Night"
A/N: Hello readers! This is my first time back into fanfic writing after a couple of years, and I am excited to be back. I really enjoyed writing a darker Tony, and I hope my portrayal of him isn't too OOC. I imagined this taking place at the end of Season 12 or beginning of Season 13. I really hope everyone enjoys this, and thank you for taking the time to read this. This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.
This is, at the moment, a one-shot, but I left it open to be able to change to multi-chapter.
(The giant italic paragraph in the middle is a flashback)
Tony DiNozzo was tired.
These longs hours were taking a toll on him. The cases were taking a toll on him. The alcohol was really taking a toll on him.
He woke up in the morning - if he had even caught much sleep at all - went for his run, went to work, came home late at night, ate some takeout, drank some booze, fell asleep. And then he started it all again the next day. And the next. And the next, until the days blurred into weeks and the weeks blurred into months.
Something had to give, Tony thought to himself.
That something, he feared, would be him.
He was damn good at his job and he knew it. Everyone knew it. It wasn't that he was feeling unappreciated; it's that he often felt lonely. He had his friends and co-workers, sure, but at the end of the day, it was his silent apartment he was coming home to. It was the empty beer cans and bottles of alcohol he was coming home to. It was his life he was coming home to, and he didn't like where he was going.
He wasn't looking for a woman to fill the void. He had been dating recently - even had a couple of long relationships - but it didn't fill the emptiness inside.
He didn't really have any family. After his mother died, he was depressed and angry. His father was never there for him. He was shipped to more boarding schools than he cares to remember. He had learned early on to count on himself, but somedays, himself wasn't enough. In his teenage years, he yearned for the love his mother had given him. His wishes went unanswered, leaving a vulnerable kid with a broken soul. And now, in his adult years, he still craves that same affection, and still feels that same hopelessness.
He, of course, has his good days. He enjoys spending time with his colleagues - listening to Ducky's stories or the warmth of Abby's hugs. He loves busting criminals. That feeling he gets when he caught the bad guys pushes him to go to work every morning. He lives for that feeling - the feeling of knowing you've made a difference. But these days, he doubts whether his actions make even the slightest difference in this huge world. There would always be another dead body, another grieving family, and another killer to catch. Catching the criminals didn't make him truly happy anymore, knowing that there was another one just around the corner.
The days seemed to grow longer, and the emptiness seemed to grow wider.
He truly, truly, understands how Gibbs feels. And that's the scariest part. He understands why Gibbs builds walls to keep people out, why he locks himself away in his basement to drown away his pain in bourbon, and he understands the sadness in his eyes.
But everyday, even with the pain and the loneliness, he puts on his bravest face and works his way through the day. He keeps his own walls in place. He jokes with his co-workers; he makes them laugh. He does paperwork, he collects evidence, he has casual conversations with other employees. He talks about taking women home and he talks about movie marathons, but more and more recently, they're just lies.
How far can a rubber band be stretched before it snaps?
He can vividly recall the first time he felt this burden.
A long case has kept the team at work late into the night. Eventually, McGee went home to Delilah, Bishop was going home to Jake, and Gibbs was finally going home to his boat.
"DiNozzo," Gibbs says, "go home. It's late. You can finish it in the morning."
"I will Gibbs. I just really want to get this done," Tony responds wearily. The bags under his eyes were becoming more and more prominent each day.
"Tony, do home. Wasn't there a movie you've been wanting to watch? Go watch it. Finish it in the morning," Gibbs responds.
Tony sighs. "I will. I promise. Just gotta finish this."
Gibbs stares at Tony for a long time, watching his strained eyes stare at the monitor and his hands slowly move across the keyboard. He gets out of his chair and stands right in front of Tony's desk.
"You doing okay, Dinozzo?" Gibbs questions.
"I'm fine, boss. Really, I'm fine," Tony replies, plastering his famous DiNozzo-grin on his face.
"If you ever need to talk, my door is open," Gibbs says, walking towards the elevator.
Tony looks around the office; he sees the empty office desks and he hears the buzz of his computer.
And that's it.
There's no one here but him. That's how it is most nights, but he rarely pays attention to the lack of people. However, tonight, it hits him. He's alone, just like he's alone at home. He realizes he constantly spends his nights at the office because his work is exactly like his home: empty. He has no reason to go home - he gets the same experience being here as being there. His home has few personal effects. To a stranger, there would be no clues that a person lived there besides the mail piling up on his unused kitchen table.
He's lived 40 something years of life and has nothing to show for it.
Tony gets up from his spot on the couch, the cushion worn down from many nights of sitting there, and walks to his liquor cabinet. He picks out the strongest, most expensive bottle of whiskey he has. He pours himself a hearty serving, washes it down, and pours some more.
I deserve this after the day I've had today, Tony thinks as he gulps down another glass. He messed up - badly. The dirtbag was right there, right in front of him, and he didn't catch him. He left a serial killer slipt right through his fingertips. Who knows when they were going to be able to track him down again. Who knows how many more people he'll kill before they catch him.
Tony takes another shot, and lays back down. Already, he has a pounding headache. His phone rings, but it goes unanswered. He's not sure how many drinks he's tonight, but he knows he'll have a nasty hangover in the morning.
He gets opens another bottle and takes a swig. He starts to feel woozy and falls to the ground, unable to keep his balance.
He hadn't meant to do it.
He truly had no intention of drinking that much.
But the alcohol stings as it goes down his throat and the pain begins to go numb, so he keeps drinking.
He vision goes blurry and he can't get off the floor, so he just lays there. His breathing slows to a crawl.
There's a knock on the door.
Tony wants to answer it, but he can't move his body.
This isn't how I wanted to go, he thinks to himself.
The last thing he hears is his door being kicked open before he slips into unconsciousness.
A/N: Reviews always make my day! Between countless government notes and English papers, I could certainly use a break to read a review. Again, thank you for reading!
A/N pt.2: As I said above, this could possibly be a multi-chapter story. If you want to leave your opinion on whether it should be (and if yes - any ideas you would want to see), pleas tell me! I'm always open to suggestions :)