A.N.: This is the first fic I've written in...years...probably since before going to college four years ago. Of course, that was under a different screen name and I'm trying to start over when it comes to writing (because I wrote some stupid shit back in high school). So, this is my attempt to get back into writing-shape. Hope you like it!
Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or any of the characters that are...you know...really on the show. Also, I have never been to Cape May, New Jersey, so any likeness to real people or specific locations (e.g. hotels or restaurants) is totally unintentional. Oh, and the title comes from the Yellowcard song of the same name, which I do not own either.
The eight years she was in D.C., to look back on them, felt infinitesimally small. Yet, somehow, the six years since she left felt like a thousand lifetimes.
Such were the thoughts of Tony DiNozzo, as he drove east along the highway and the bright June sunlight shone through his windshield and reflected off of his mirrored sunglass lenses.
He knew he should not be thinking about these things- about her- because the entire point of this trip was to help him get his head on straight. If he could not manage that, he could lose his job at NCIS. His screws had slowly been coming loose since he boarded that plane back in October of 2013, but they had all but popped out by this point.
No matter how hard he had tried to hide his pain, he knew that his coworkers saw it and were concerned. They could see the bags under his eyes from the sleepless nights, the weight loss from the meals skipped, the shaking hands from the heavy reliance upon caffeine, and the lethargy plaguing his every day. McGee, Bishop, Abby, Palmer, Ducky, and even Vance had commented on Tony's well-being. They urged him to find help, find a healthy way of coping, to talk to them, to not take it out on himself. But he could not help it. Like Ziva, he was a stubborn, self-flagellating fool.
It was Gibbs who finally got through to Tony. Last Friday, three days ago, Gibbs had walked into the men's room at five a.m. and found Tony passed out in the stall. He was pale and clammy, wrapped around the toilet. It was apparent that he had worked himself sick, then proceeded to cry and vomit himself to sleep. Upon waking the younger agent, Gibbs gave him an ultimatum- take at least a week and leave town to relax and try to work out some of his problems, or be listed as mentally unfit to serve in the line of duty and be relegated to desk work or the unemployment line.
Thus, Tony found himself on the road between D.C. and Cape May, New Jersey. He thought that the salt air might do him some good. A little more sun. The laid-back resort pace. It seemed ideal for collecting himself and letting the weight of the past six years roll off his shoulders. On Saturday, he booked a room; not many were left for the upcoming week, but he managed to find one. It was small, but he was alone. It was modest, but he had no one to impress. It was a few blocks from the beach, but he could use the walk. In short, it was perfectly imperfect.
He needed this break, he knew he did, but it was hard to convince himself entirely of that fact. Every year since Ziva left, he had taken progressively fewer vacation and sick days. Strange, it seemed to him, that the place where he spent the most time with her was the only place where he felt that he was whole. When he returned from Israel without her, he thought that the squadroom would be the hardest place for him to be, and truth be told, when Bishop took Ziva's desk he had to choke back something that was in between a sob and a shout. Part of him- maybe most of him- was very upset that the desk across from him did not get the same mourning period for Ziva as it did for Kate. Perhaps, he thought, Gibbs was bitter about Ziva's leaving. With Kate there was the mourning and the respecting of what was once Kate's because she had not chosen to part company with her coworkers. Ziva, however, had chosen to leave the team and, as such, did not receive the same grieving period that Gibbs had given her predecessor. In fact, had Tony not came into the squadroom late at night after landing in D.C. to go through Ziva's desk and take the items he wanted, he was sure that they would have been unceremoniously tossed in a box by his boss, and mailed to Ziva, whether or not she actually wanted them.
The years since her departure had been bittersweet. He had watched McGee move on with his life, continue developing his relationship with Delilah. Their relationship seemed heartbreakingly normal to Tony, with the ups and downs, the fights and the apologies- he never knew that it was posible to long for a lover's quarrel, just because it meant that you had someone with whom to quarrel. Jimmy and Breena had a baby boy, who would soon be four years old. Julian was his name with the middle name- despite Ducky's half-hearted protests- Donald. Most people called the little boy 'J.D.;' he called Tony 'Unca Tony.' J.D. made Tony smile like few things did. He could not really explain how he went from being afraid of children to being wrapped around a three-year-old's finger, but he had. Everyone else saw it, too. Some days it seemed like J.D. was the only thing that could make Tony smile. Therefore, when Tony had days off from work- the ones he was required to take- he either spent them at the Palmer residence or babysitting J.D. in his own apartment.
Things had changed substantially in Tony's life. Most people would say that it was for the better, but he still felt a sense of being incomplete. It was like he was using things- work, McGee and Delilah's relationship, J.D.- to fill a void in his life. Unfortunately, the void got deeper every day and no amount of extra work would fill it. That hardly stopped him from trying, though.
The sun seemed brighter today. He did not know if it was the increasing distance between himself and D.C. or the decreasing distance between himself and the sea, but with every mile he felt his heart grow lighter. He had dug a pit of despair that he had thought to be a den of refuge, but had turned into his own grave. Gibbs had tossed him a ladder and every bit closer he got to Cape May was another rung climbed.
A welcome sign on the side of the road let him know that he had reached the top of the ladder.
He found his hotel, the Sea Oat Inn, checked in and began unpacking. The room was small and bright blue with creamy-colored accents. A lone queen-sized bed stood in the center of the bedroom area, covered with a baby blue comforter. He stood at the foot and fell face-first onto the blue blanket.
What does a person do on a vacation by themselves he thought.
In the past, when he went to Cape May- or any beach, for that matter- he had either brought a friend or found a girl, sometimes both. He had gone to the beach with essentially any combination of McGee, Abby, and Ziva. He had gone to the beach with several girlfriends. He had gone to the beach with old frat brothers and basketball teammates. He had gone to the beach with police coworkers. The few times he had gone by himself, he soon found a bathing beauty with whom he could share his time.
This time was different. He had no interest in bathing beauties or blasts from the past. He could not call any of his work friends to join him because they all had to be at work.
So, here he was. On vacation alone. Never having been on vacation alone (at least not in his adult life). Completely unsure as to what people did on solo vacations.
"I should get a book," he mumbled into his pillow, taking a moment to savor how unlike him that seemed. A book on a beach vacation. He was turning into McGeek.