A/N: Dark thoughts at the prospect of Tony DiNozzo leaving NCIS at the end of the season. No real beginning or ending; like events of the show, in flux. Just something I had to get off my chest, as I process the news and the past couple seasons.

Warning: Not cheery.

This is the way the world ends.

Not with a bang but a whimper.

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

"I'm tired."

Tony stood at the large window overlooking the Anacostia, his gaze fixed on some point beyond its shores. It was dusk; snow was falling. Headlights marked the crawl of commuters heading home for the weekend. Gibbs had a sudden memory of another DiNozzo, more than a decade younger, whose natural energy overload seemed to be racheted up even higher once positioned within the ridiculous jack o' lantern walls. There weren't many days when that DiNozzo didn't bound out of the place as soon as he was released from the day, off in his hunt for a girl, or a pick-up game, or a pizza. To be fair, he often bounded into work too, unless one of his adventures kept him out later than he should have been on a school night.

Back then, DiNozzo was energy; he was eager, keen to learn and keen to show what he could do. With time, and experience, and confidence – both his own and that he'd earned from the Boss – he harnessed his energy, tamed it, worked "smarter not harder," but it was still there. His previously scattered, random vigor seemed to transform into a determined and stubborn loyalty, a thicker skin, a more forgiving nature. After all, he'd been screwed over by his dad and by his partner, so he knew that he could do far worse than a boss who didn't do touchy-feely and could be a real bastard sometimes, but could be counted on to watch his back and be up front with him when it counted. Tony was still keen to learn, keen to do what he knew how to do to solve the case. He'd been raised on disappointment and was better able than many to weather his losses – his mother and fiancé when younger; his co-workers and partners on the job. He'd found a home in his career and knew it was what he wanted for the long haul.

Now, he didn't know when that, too, had begun to unravel.

He'd lost Ziva well before she pushed him away in Israel; their teasing and banter had turned sharp and too close to the bone. Michael Rivkin's appearance in LA and DC had been proceeded by her months in Israel – ostensibly back in Mossad to stay, while he was afloat – and her visits back home after she returned to DC included Rivkin, from the photo he'd found. Tony didn't want to think of how much she knew about Michael's assignment, those months before his death and her exile; Tony's trust for her was nearly as stubborn as it had been for Gibbs. Yet even after they brought her home from Somalia, even after he'd tracked her down in Israel, after her coy invitation and then her avoidance, after her apparent guilt-induced, near-breakdown and his begging her to come back with him, he was never sure that she had forgiven him for killing Michael. He was never sure just what he felt for her other than love, but surely there was more, too, given their complicated history; he was never sure that they could live sanely under one roof, although given a chance for it he would have grabbed it with both hands and held on with all his might.

And Gibbs? He'd seen Gibbs become even more Gibbs over the years he was there as his second, and in recent weeks and months, Tony had wondered more than once if having a second to absorb the worst gave Gibbs license to live up to his reputation and be even more of a bastard. The Gibbs of those early years, when it was only the two of them, or back when they had Vivian or Kate on the team, wasn't exactly chatty, but he did more than just grunt and glare; he taught. He even laughed or joked on occasion. He found fewer reasons to go off on his own vendettas and for the most part, followed his own rules, like "never be unreachable" or "work as a team." Then came amnesia, and a previously hidden life of pain suddenly revealed, and just as Tony was starting to understand some of what made the Boss who he was, he was gone, seemingly under the impression he could just anoint a successor – and seemingly right. Tony had lost Gibbs then, and the man who came back was not the man he'd followed to NCIS. Stubborn as always, Tony wanted to believe, made himself believe ... but it was never quite the same.

After Gibbs' return from Mexico, there were highs and lows, all in a blur ... more loss for DiNozzo, an exile of his own, more secrets and secret missions, some he was expected to blindly follow – which of course he did. He wasn't proud of all he had done, moment to moment, but he always had a reason and was always counted on by his partners to get their backs, to be there when it counted, even to ease the tension or be a buffer when things were grim. All he asked was an occasional bone and at least a basic loyalty in return; all he asked was that Gibbs follow his own rule: "never screw over your partner"

"What was my crime?" Tony finally turned and looked at the man standing not ten feet away from him and looking as if he was across the table from him in Interrogation, the man he had so respected for so long, for whom he had been so willing – was still willing – to lay down his life if it came to that. "I screwed up. I let myself get distracted, and didn't see the kid. I know that. I'd like to know if that's all this is."

"All what, DiNozzo?"

The tone was cold, distant, like they'd never been partners, never shared a steak or a loss... he was warmer when I busted him back in Baltimore...

"C'mon, Gibbs," he felt a sudden spark of anger at the thought. "Even you make yourself clear when you're pissed, if you feel like it. Now you just hang around the edges, glaring. It's almost like you wait until I try to talk to you about it, so you can shoot me another one of your looks – like I shot your dog, or..." His eyes widened for a moment, "or I shot Luke. And what would you have done if I had shot him? Huh? The kid you were going to save? Wouldn't be in this particular dog house, what with letting you get shot – but it would probably a worse one." Tony faltered only a moment as a possible explanation started take shape in his thoughts, but instead of just blurting it out, as he might have in years past, he just tucked it away, a more resigned look in his eyes taking over as the exhaustion suddenly returned. After a moment he went on, "it's hard enough to stand by and hold your coat when we know why you're pissed, or who you're fighting. I can't read your mind, Gibbs, not like before. Maybe because even you don't know why anymore."

"So you quit." At the shrug he got, Gibbs pressed, "Vance didn't accept your resignation."

"Yeah." He snorted softly. "Should sound familiar."

"Rule number five."

Tony's laugh was dry, soft – strangled. Wholly without humor. "Are we still using the low numbers?"

"You got a problem with me, just spit it out, DiNozzo."

"Tried. More than once." Tony glanced at Gibbs as he spoke but neither held nor avoided eye contact; his voice and affect were flat, depleted. Silence loomed around them, but unlike the old DiNozzo, this Tony didn't rush to fill the void, and Gibbs saw that among other lessons DiNozzo had learned was that the silent treatment was one of Gibbs main tools to elicit information, even confessions. Another was how to resist his particular brand of interrogation...

Gibbs' irritation rose, his voice like steel. "Since when do you just quit when things get hard?"

"When these things get this hard." Before Gibbs could say any more, Tony finally turned and looked him in the eye – no deception, no filters – and said evenly, "I've said it before, Gibbs – I owe everything I am in this job to you. I've learned from you. I was a good cop, but I've gotten better, learning from you. I did everything I could do to get your back, because it was something I could do well and it was a way to thank you for what you've taught me. But ... somewhere along the line ... you stopped teaching. I could still get your back, and I could even still learn, just by observing. But whatever's happening now ... I'm afraid I'll learn from that, too. I don't want to ruin the last fifteen years by doing that."

"Then don't quit. Make it right."

"Tried. Can't. Not alone ... and you won't talk about it."

"So, we talk."

DiNozzo looked into the hard, veiled eyes and slowly shook his head. "Tried," he repeated, then wavered, "look... if there comes a time when you can tell me what's going on – why you've shut down, why you wouldn't just talk to me about why you're pissed, what your problem is with me; hell, even why the change of hair and wardrobe – I'll be ready to listen. But I don't get what the hell is so different this time and if you can't tell me ..." He took a breath, steadying himself, and said, "it's always been more than just the cases for me here, and you know that. You've always known that. And I refuse to lose that. Even if it's only memories of NCIS from here on out for me – I don't want to lose that."

Tony finally turned and went to his desk, picking up his overcoat. As he started to walk out of the bullpen, Gibbs stopped him with one more prod. "Thought the only job you ever wanted was being a cop."

Tony stopped, but didn't turn. After a few moments, he sighed. "Yeah. Me too."

"Well?" After a long pause, Gibbs said grudgingly, "if not this team, you know the Director would give you one. He put you on leave hoping you'd take a team."

Another pause from Tony, unmoving, before his shoulders slumped. In a quieter, more defeated voice, he said, "yeah, well, it's nice to be wanted."

Silence fell over the bullpen again, until, irritated and in denial, Gibbs went around to his desk and sat, heavily, pulling another file in front of him to open with a brusque snap. Quietly, his senior field agent started moving again toward the elevator.

"It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone." John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent