A/N: I AM still working on the BTL series, in fact i have the next chapter finished, I'm just giving it a final once-over before I respond to previous reviews and post it, however, after the events that transpired in the most recent epi aka 'Semper Fidelis' I had all this horrible, sticky angst floating around in me that just needed an outlet. So here it is. No excuses and no looking back. Hope you 'enjoy'. -pj

A/N: Possible tissue warning for this and the ending is purely up for interpretation (as to what happens after those three stingy letters come up).

Disclaimer: I can't even begin to detail all the reasons you should know they're not mine.

I stare down at the Amber liquid in my glass. It reflects off rays of light coming in from my window but I don't look up to see what colors the sky is painted today.

It doesn't matter. Blue, gray, red, orange, purple. I don't care.

Amber is the only color I like anymore.

It wasn't so far to rock bottom. Not so far as everyone always says. I suppose it was gradual, by most folks calculations, but it only took a matter of months.

Three to be exact. Three months, one week, six days.

If you're counting.

Which I'm not.

I look down at my glass again, I don't remember looking up, and see the Amber is all gone. I frown at it and then pour some more.

(I do like Amber.)

I sit back as the alcohol burns smooth and slow down my throat and sigh, rubbing a hand across my face. I feel three days worth of stubble there and smell my toast burning in the kitchen. I decide I don't care about that either. Speaking of smells, I should probably clean out the fridge or at least take the garbage out sometime soon.

I shrug as if there is someone there to see me and take another sip that's more like a gulp.

Maybe I'll do it tomorrow.

It's not really that hard to remember when I started to slide.

(Again.)

Not nearly as hard as it is to remember what I did with the amber that was in my glass a second ago.

(The path to alcoholism is one I know well.)

I think it started that day at Ziva's apartment. Or, I try to tell myself that, I guess it really started with Jenny, that was my last slide. I'd screwed up, gotten somebody killed like all my COs, minus Gibbs, always said I would. Then everything I knew and loved was taken away and I was suddenly the only cop aboard a city of 5,000.

I shrug again, (there's still no one here), 'cause I deserved it.

But not counting Jenny, it definitely started that day (night) at Ziva's apartment. The moment I saw Michael coming toward me with that shard of glass, murder if I've ever seen it written plainly in his eyes. I knew, I knew, what he was going to do. I told him 'no'. I wished he would stop. As much as I hated the son of a bitch I didn't want to kill him. Not like this. Not in Ziva's apartment. Not when Ziva still loved him.

And then it was over. He was dead. And with adrenalin still pumping hard and fast in my veins, I looked over my shoulder at the sound of the door opening, ready to shoot, and it was Ziva. Her eyes went over to Michaels' body, then to the gun in my hands and the wreckage we'd made of the room.

She knew.

(She'd always known.)

And in that moment, I started to slide.

I went to the hospital, gave my statement, like a good little agent. I wrote up my report and turned it in, spell checked and everything. But Ziva wouldn't look me in the eyes. That's when I realized I liked Amber.

Her eyes are sort of Amber, when the sun hits them, you know?

After that there were inquisitions and interviews, IA came and reports were filed. Just a bunch of bureaucracy bull that confirmed what we already knew. I'd killed the man Ziva loved. A mossad agent. An assassin.

(But a man Ziva loved all the same.)

When it was all over, the Mossad Liaison position was terminated. Again. Permanently this time and in a strange way I was relived. It saved us all from having to face the moment when she told us she was leaving of her own accord. It was inevitable. First Gibbs killed Ari and now I'd killed Michael. Two men Ziva loved had died at the hands of two men she trusted. She only had one man left on either side and, while it was highly unlikely McGee was ever going to be in a position where he could harm Eli David, well, I wouldn't have taken the chance either.

I feel my vision swimming and take another long sip to steady it.

Then, two weeks after Ziva left, two horrible, mopey weeks of silence in the lab and with her hair done in low, depressed pigtails, Abby handed in her resignation. I couldn't blame her either, though Gibbs certainly tried. But I didn't. Abby is a naturally happy person. She gives hugs and smiles to anyone who crosses her path. Gives out love just as easily. Maybe too easily. And working at NCIS, hardly a week went by when someone she loved wasn't injured or killed. And even less time when she wasn't being lied to or keeping secrets or having to lie to someone else. To someone like Abby, secrets are poison that kill your soul.

(And everyone knows Abby's rule number one.)

I blink a few times and frown at the ceiling, wondering when I made it to the floor. My foot feels funny and, with some effort, I crane my neck and see it tangled in the legs of my chair, somewhat elevated and, therefore, asleep. I wonder where my Amber has gone.

After that McGee left. Went to spread his wings at the CIA when they expressed interest, six figured interest, in his computer skills. I wasn't really sorry to see him go either. Someone that ready to turn their back on Gibbs and go to the Dark Side isn't really worth missing.

So now it's just me and Gibbs again. And really, it's only Gibbs, because between Amber and Rock Bottom, I'm not much help. I think maybe I'm letting Gibbs down now, because my breathing's coming harder than it should and my thoughts are getting fuzzy around the edges and gooey in the middle. I think Gibbs will probably retire again, (soon if I can't get myself off the floor this time, it was plenty hard enough last night when Amber betrayed me) and I don't think that bothers me near as much as it should either.

I kind of wish it did.

The fuzzy feeling is giving way into blackness and suddenly there's a cold, dead feeling in my chest that scares me. It's a fresh, sharp feeling of panic that I don't immediately recognize, offset by the cool tile floor beneath me and the tingly feeling in my foot. I wish I could jerk fully awake and scream or cry or spout off a really, really cool movie quote, even if there's no one here to hear it. But nothing comes (and I don't care less than I should) and I allow my eyes to close fully (because what else am i gonna do?). As my mind shuts down, (for maybe the last time, who am I to say?) I realize the Fear is the first thing I can remember feeling in…a little over three months.

Three months, one week, six days.

If anyone is counting.

And I think now, that maybe I should.

END