(Sniff) Okay. Okay. I hate Ellie. Terribly. And the more I hate Ellie, the more I miss Ziva, and it all kind of snowballed. A lot.

So once I post this, I'll retreat into my corner and write about bagging groceries...*Sob*

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Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo had four loves of his life.

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Wendy.

Wendy was the beginning. Wendy was the first woman Tony ever loved; she was the first woman that he restrained his stupidity around to try to impress her. She was the first woman he bragged about work to, the first woman who made him feel like there could be more than the endless stream of one-night stands.

Wendy was the first one that he wanted to protect. She was the first one he wanted to spend a gazillion bucks for an engagement ring on, the first one that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

And then she called on the night before the wedding, post-bachelor party and all, sent the ring back in a note-less envelope, left a message on the machine and jetted off with the honeymoon tickets to where he'd never follow her.

Gone.

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Then there was Kate. There was something old-world about her, a kind of woman he'd watch movies about. She was ladylike and compassionate, and yet not afraid to kick McGee in the balls if she needed to, toss wet sponges, or try to stab a terrorist with a teensy-tiny scalpel. And, of course, sleep with a gun under her pillow.

It was immeasurably fun to get her started, going through her purse and desk drawers (she learned quick to lock them), using her deodorant just to watch her throw it out. But she was his partner, the only woman he'd ever known to have his back at all times. She was equally able to shed tears over her first suicide-by-cop as to willingly jump in front of a bullet.

She stayed with him when he was dying.

And his last words to her? So stupid, and so nothing like what he would have liked. No pilates tomorrow? No wedding band, no future together. No angry, pregnant Kate and bitsy daughter named Kelly.

A small red hole in her forehead and half her skull missing.

Gone.

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Jeanne was a tragedy. He should have said no to begin with, when Jenny sent him in. He knew how he was about women; Jeanne was beautiful, and smart, and kind, and worked just as hard as he did at saving lives. And she loved him.

And it felt horrible, using her like that. But it didn't take long before he was on the phone with her between case reports and hiding behind the staircase, until he was behaving like a novice boyfriend and wanting to "take it slow"… Until he was crying in her arms and whispering that he loved her.

Jenny ruined everything. It was Jenny's fault he'd met and fallen in love with Jeanne, it was Jenny's fault that he told her his name was Tony DiNardo and that he was a film professor – what kind of film professor works forty-eight-hour shifts? – and Jenny's fault that her father was an arms dealer she'd sworn to take down.

Jenny's fault that he told her no and she slid, crying, down in the elevator and out of his life forever.

Gone.

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But Ziva was the real love of his life. Eight and a half years, he saw her every single day. Rain and shine. She was sexual on purpose in a way that allured him, a way that Wendy and Kate and Jeanne would never imagine being. A hip-thrusting, GSM-reading, paperclip-wielding woman, so exotic and beautiful. And mean.

But she stopped that, somewhat. Got better at the whole "human relation" thing. She was selfish at the same time as being incredibly selfless, concerned and crabby and the first person this side of the world he'd want to hear yell "Clear!" from the other side of a deserted building.

She teased him mercilessly and was able to take it, and she was dangerous in a way that made all of their interactions exciting. But she didn't trust him, even though she loved him, for a long time. She didn't trust him not to have killed Michael over jealousy.

But she learned, when he came to avenge her death.

She learned and got so good at the being human thing that it tore her apart from the inside, and in a move that was designed to save herself, she destroyed him. She stayed in Israel, and killed her former self, the self who'd rather have died than take off her star.

Gone.