(A/N: Warning: Contains heartbreak and more-than-mild angst. Just to clarify, there is no Tabby in this story. Pairings are McNozzo and Zabby, in case you didn't read the summary. Assumes established relationships. If you don't like, don't read. Songfic to Don McLean's "Empty Chairs", which is beautiful – go and listen to it! As per usual, none of the characters or lyrics belong to me. Only the (fairly limited) plot is mine.)
I feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night
Creep through my fingers and the moon is bright
Beams of blue come flickering through my window pane
Like gypsy moths that dance around a candle flame
Tony gazed out from his window across the streets, unseeing eyes passing over the lighted windows and cars coming home for the night. A police vehicle sped past, but its sirens and blue lights went unnoticed by the solitary figure standing at his window, one hand against the cold glass, lost in melancholy contemplation.
He hadn't thought he would be alone tonight. He'd come in as usual, humming cheerfully, vaguely listening out for the sounds of his lover moving about. But there were none. This didn't worry him at first. After all, maybe he'd gone to get take-out or a movie or something. It was the beginning of the weekend, and they both needed to wind down.
An hour went by with no sudden appearance, and Tony began to fret. He did care about Tim – very deeply, in fact – he just… wasn't very good at showing it, that was all. In his over-active imagination, pictures began to form, of Tim lying injured in some back alley somewhere, unable to phone, or even call for help. No matter that he was far too sensible to walk the back streets at night, or that he was a trained and most probably armed NCIS agent. None of this mattered to Tony in the heat of the moment, as he thought of Tim hurting, bleeding, dead…
No, he told himself. Don't think like that. Where's the usual DiNozzo optimism?
So it was that he finally began to look around himself and take note of his surroundings. And things began to jump out at him. It was all too… tidy. No nerdy books lying around. No pile of ironed shirts on the chair by the door that he could swear had been there when he left for work.
He got up, and started to actively search, to look for things that were not there. Nothing under the sofa, on the table. Nothing but his own crap. Even in the fridge. Only his own rubbish was there, shelved haphazardly against all health and safety advice. And on the bottom shelf, a glass dish holding the remainder of last night's dinner. They'd been going to heat it up and have it tonight with a bottle of wine – Tim's wine – that was suddenly conspicuous in its absence.
Frantic now, he tore through the flat, searching for any trace of Tim, anything at all. The bathroom held only his own essentials, now. One toothbrush, one razor, endless bottles of cologne, but all belonging solely to him. His shower gel, his hair products – how Tim had laughed at the array of bottles when he'd first moved in. But that hurt to think about, now.
Finally to the bedroom. He hardly dared go in, wanting to believe with all his heart that it would be just as they'd left it that morning, rumpled sheets, clothes strewn about in the haste to dress for work. And why the rush? a voice at the back of his mind chided. Because you'd been busy? Or because you'd teased him about his morning routine once too often?
If only to still his conscience, he shoved open the door with more violence that he'd meant. It banged against the wall with a hollow thud, rebounding onto his still outstretched hand, but he didn't hear the noise or feel the slam. It was as he'd known it would be all along. The bed was still a mess; there were still clothes on the floor; but they were all his. The doors of the wardrobe were still open, swinging gently in the breeze from the window, and though he could see at first glance that it was half-empty, he began to throw all the clothes out all the same, hoping against hope for some last hint of his Tim.
At the very bottom, under old shoes and ties and unopened boxes holding God-knows-what, he found what he was looking for. A plain white shirt, rumpled and creased and unworn for months, and yet it somehow soothed his fears that the past year had been some strange figment of his imagination. The shirt and the dish in the fridge were all he had left to hold onto, and he did, clutching the garment to his chest as a drowning man might clutch a life-ring. The thin cotton was soon soaked through with bitter tears, but it made no difference to Tony.
At last, emptied of all emotion, he stood up. He wasn't hungry, but some impulse told him to eat, even if it was purely automatic. Like some kind of zombie, he drifted through his apartment till he reached the kitchen, going through the motions with no thought whatsoever. It was only when he sat down that he realised he had placed two plates full of steaming food, two forks, and two glasses of water onto to table. He would have burst into tears again, but he had nothing left. Instead he stood up, reached for the shirt, which had been hanging over the back of his chair, and made his way over to the window.
For no reason at all, or so it seemed to him, he began to pull on the shirt, carefully sliding his arms into the sleeves. It did not occur to him until he was buttoning it up that Tim was not the same shape as him – and by then, it was too late. The fabric, already stretched taut across his broad shoulders, split as the strain became too much. The back of the shirt ripped right down the middle, but Tony did not hear the noise. He was in a world of fog and blurred images, muffled by his own automatic barricades, seeing little clearly and hearing less.
So it was that Agent Anthony DiNozzo spent his Friday evening not out on the town as his colleagues suspected, nor snuggled up in front of the television as he had planned, but standing by an open window in a ruined shirt two sizes too small.
And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did
I never thought you would
(A/N: Like? (Please say somebody does; I've poured my heart and soul into this!) If anyone does like this, I will continue it. Next chapter is already written (from Abby's POV), and will be uploaded, pending reviews (hint hint)! As I've planned it, should be about four or five chapters in total.)