In the dark
Time ran through his fingers. Every day was the same. Get up, breakfast, work, dinner, a movie or a book, bed. He was smiling, laughing, flirting, always good for a witty remark or silly joke. His mask was solid, but his mind was empty and somehow bleak. He was looking like the enjoyable guy, fun-loving even. But he wasn't although no one knew. No one could see through all his carefully build defences.
He wasn't sure when he had started to wear a mask but he couldn't remember being without it any more. In early years, when he was about twenty, he had tried to talk to some people, tried to tell them how he felt and that something was wrong with him. All he had gotten were a few 'It's not like that's or 'It will get better's. So he gave up on talking to people, he pretended 'it wasn't like that' and that 'it got better'.
Here he was at the end of the line. Everyday it got more difficult. It got harder to get up, to eat , to work. To keep his mask up. And still no one noticed. He wasn't suicidal but... wary. If he did die then and there, he wouldn't be sorry about that. Life would just go on. With or without him. Of course some of his friends, his chosen family, would be sad and grieve about him. But not long. And they would go on. He would just be a short-termed memory, if at all.
His tiredness had slowly invaded his work for years. He threw himself in any danger he could find. Always be the one walking in first if they cleared a house. Always in the front row if a weapon was pointed towards the team. Sometimes wishing the bad guy would just pull the trigger. He was the one who took the dangerous and potentially fatal tasks without any hesitation. And they didn't even notice. In some nights he had a bittersweet smile on his face, thinking about the well-trained investigators being so oblivious to him but it just fitted the rest. His mask was solid and he was not worth it sparing a second look.
He got kidnapped, shot, beaten up and only the pain and the thrill of escaping made him at least feel something else than emptiness and sadness.
Today was one of the more worse days
He walked in the bullpen, bright smile on his face.
"Good Morning everyone! Did you have a nice weekend?"
"Not too bad." McGee was smiling at him. "You?"
"Oh, I got a pretty hot date with a nice Yoga-chick. She could bring her…" He could see Ziva shaking her head out of the corner of his eyes.
"Thanks, Tony." The younger stopped him, holding up his hand, like always before he could share too much details.
And he was glad. So he didn't have to come up with a new lie. He had spent his weekend in chosen isolation, not willing to have any social contact, as so often lately. Even frowning about any incoming texts. But forcing himself to answer as rule #3 said. Never be unreachable. Sometimes he snorted about the damn rules but wasn't able to break any of them intentionally.
"Gear up!" Gibbs walked in as he was just about to sit down. A slight tickle ran down his spine. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his bag, badge and gun. "We got a dead Marine in Fort Circle Park."
The work was the same as always. Taking pictures, bagging evidence, listening to the people who found him… always the same and he did that on auto-pilot. He listened to Ducky for his recap for potential cause of death and anything else the ME had to provide up to that point. He teased McGee and Ziva and got only one head-sleap by Gibbs. So far, so good.
Back at the bullpen, they did their usual research on the victim and related people. Without any eye-catching results. Tony took a close look at the bank account of the Marine. Finding some quite interesting debits.
"Boss, this guy was more than once in a small shop. Looks like a book store." Tony announced.
"Go check that. McGee, Ziva you go check the apartment."
"On it, boss."
"Okay, Gibbs."
The agents geared up again and made their way to the ordered locations. Tony was relieved he was on his own. He liked being alone on a trace. No one could watch him, no one judged him or might see his mask slipping.
As he arrived at his destination he was surprised. It was a small store, looking more like an antiquarian book shop. He went in, inhaling the smell of the old books.
"Can I help you?" A man in his mid-thirties addressed him. He was blond, with light blue eyes.
"Ah, yes." Tony showed his badge."I'm special agent DiNozzo, NCIS."
"What can I do for you, agent DiNozzo?"
Tony showed the other a picture of the dead Marine. "Do you know this man?"
"Uhm… yes. This is one of my regular customers. Michael Hobbs."
"Considering his account statement, he is a pretty good customer. What did he buy?"
"He comes several times a week, looking for rare books. He is a collector of first editions of Hemingway and Twain."
"Do you have any documents about his purchases?"
"Of course. I'll get them for you." The other man vanished in the back of the store. Tony took in his surrounding. It was just an ordinary antiquarian book shop. Nothing attracted his attention.
"Here are your documents, Agent DiNozzo."
"Thank you."
Tony left and made his way back to the car. Highly disappointing. He had hoped, the trip would bring further hints regarding the murder. But he couldn't see how some old books could help solve the case.
Absentmindedly he reached his car as a tissue was pressed to his face. He smelled chloroform as two strong arms got a hold on him, he fought to get free but the chemical let him slowly fade away.
