Abby is trying to talk to Tony.

Not just chatting. A Serious Talk About Life and Direction and Ziva.

McGee, who has just edged his way into the lab to find his coworkers leaning on the same side of Abby's counter, facing away from him, does not recommend this. He is a fan of acting as normal as possible and waiting for Tony to feel comfortable enough to drop a piece of information or a feeling in front of him, and then prying open that piece of information or feeling very, very carefully.

So far it hasn't been so effective. But then, it's a strategy that requires time, and it's only been a few weeks. He's pretty sure Tony's taken a trip or two to Gibbs's basement. He can wait his turn. In the meantime, he's trying to remember to be annoyed with Tony when the man does the things that used to drive him nuts. Tony would hate to be forgiven for all of his probing into McGee and Delilah's love life just because Tim pities him, after all.

It's also easier this way, because he's still a little hurt that Tony got to say goodbye, and Gibbs got a phone call, and he got nothing. He knows it's different.

Still stings.

"—limbo forever…she broke your heart, Tony."

McGee cringes, because Abby doesn't pull her punches.

Tony lifts and drops a shoulder. "I didn't exactly give her stipulations on what she could do with it when I gave it to her. It was hers to break."

This is new. Tony being honest and forthright about his feelings is new. Astonishingly enough, Tim finds he would rather be forced to dig those feelings out from beneath eighteen layers of bad jokes and Humphrey Bogart references. This serious thing—it's not normal. It makes him uncomfortable.

Abby's generous with her gesticulations today. "That's so unfair!"

Every bit of Tony's posture, and the bit McGee can see of his profile, suggests a sort of bone-weary incredulity. It's a weird combination.

"I don't see what's so unfair about it, Abs," he says. The straightforwardness is still creepy. "She's not the first woman to break my heart, but she did it—perfectly—" is Tim imagining the faint hitch in Tony's voice? "And I'm not the first guy to break hers, but…I think I did it with some style."

Abby looks briefly skyward. "But you didn't break her heart!"

Tony chuckles, but it has no humor in it. "You didn't see her face when I left."

"But it was her—"

"Her choice? Yeah." He flicks a test tube, and it clinks against the next tube in the wire rack. "Doesn't mean it wasn't killing her," he says, low.

Abby has been one of Tim's dearest friends for years, and he's loved her in many different capacities. But right now he wants to smack her, because she is not getting it.

Maybe it's because she doesn't work upstairs and outside with them all day, every day, but he still doesn't understand why she can't seem to grasp that Tony and Ziva's relationship isn't something that can be distilled into I-loved-her-and-she-broke-my-heart. They're a swirling vortex of wounds and bandages and passion and tenderness and scar tissue. He's never seen anything so complicated. And that's saying something, because he's hacked past CIA firewalls before.

"Are you…blaming yourself?"

"No." Tony straightens up and takes a step away from the counter, and McGee knows that this awful conversation is over. "Not my fault. Not her fault, either."

"Tony—"

"I think McGee has something to ask you; he's been standing behind us for ten minutes."

Damn. Maybe Ziva had rubbed off on Tony even more than Tim had thought.

"No, I just—" Tim starts, just as Abby thrusts an open hand against his chest to hold him back—wait—and grabs at Tony's elbow.

"Look, I don't—"

"Know anything about it?" Tony asks, and McGee is surprised to hear such aggressive words delivered so flatly. When Tony is angry, he's genuinely frightening. This is not an angry Tony. This is a Tony who is…well, he isn't sure. Depressed? Resigned?

Abby looks wounded. "I just meant…what…I mean, is that just it?"

Tony looks at her blankly.

"I think what Abby means is what are you going to do," McGee says quietly.

Tony turns his gaze on him for a long moment, as if pondering something, then finally gives McGee—not Abby, Tim notices—a very tiny smile. "Count to a million," he says.

And leaving that cryptic bit of information/feelings-dropping for McGee to unpack, he turns and walks away.

Not depressed or resigned, McGee thinks. Well, maybe a little of each. But what Tony really is—and what somehow seems most painful of all—is hopeful.

"I really messed that up," Abby groans.

"Yeah."

She regards him unhappily. "What do you want?"

"Just a progress check."

"Everything I have so far is in your inbox, McGee."

"Yeah, I know."

Her eyebrows draw together quizzically until he cocks his head at the door and she gets it. "Oh. Well, I hope you got more out of it than I did."

"I dunno." He hesitates. "He wants her back."

"We all want her back, but that doesn't mean we can forget everything that's happened!"

"Yeah, but he thinks….I think he thinks we might actually get her back. Eventually."

Abby glances at the picture of the team she recently framed near her monitor, and her voice cracks when she speaks. "Well, I'm glad he thinks that. 'Cause I'm not so sure."

A minute later when Tim exited the lab, he realizes that he mispoke. Tony doesn't think that we—they—might actually get her back. Tony thinks he might get her back, eventually, and he is willing to wait for however long it takes.

But Ziva will not be returning to NCIS.

The thought punches him in the gut, and Tim, unprepared, reaches out and grips the handrail in the elevator.

This is not easy.

Not for any of them.