Dark Space

He's standing at the edge of a dark, yawning chasm, staring down into the blackness below his feet. Every inch of this landscape is familiar to him, every crack and crevice well known. After all, he's been standing here, balanced at the very edge, his whole life. When he's brutally honest with himself, which he always is, he recognizes that his strength comes from the daily struggle to stand, right there at the edge, staring into that darkness and refusing to blink. When he's feeling fanciful, which he rarely allows, he thinks that he and the darkness are soulmates, inexorably joined, their eternal battle for supremacy giving them both purpose. When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. Smart man, Nietzsche. Probably had a dark pit of his own.

But lately the balance has shifted. He feels the edge starting to crumble away beneath his feet, feels himself starting to slide down into the dark space below. He accepts it with a sense of resignation because this, too, is familiar. It's not the first time he's lost his footing and fallen in. He knows that once he's far enough gone to recognize that he's falling, it's too late to save himself. The bottom of the chasm is an agonizingly desolate place, and he knows it will be a long, painful climb back out of that pit. He also knows that every time he fights his way back to the top, he leaves part of himself behind, a blood sacrifice to the darkness.

Some part of him has known this was coming; each time he starts this slide into darkness there are warning signs. He's felt the distance growing between himself and the people around him, felt himself slowly being pushed away until he's become more observer than participant in his world, just hovering around the edges. He's become a triviality in his own life. Set aside. Ignored. Forgotten.

Part of him knows it's not true. Experience and hindsight have taught him that others aren't really drawing away from him, that he's started drawing away from them. People are noticing the cracks in his carefully-crafted veneer, and they keep asking him if he's OK. Every time someone asks, he considers giving them an honest answer. The part of him that is trying desperately to take a step back from the edge knows that all he has to say is "No, I'm not," and someone will stop, focus on him, ask him what's wrong. But before that part of his mind can even form words, his mouth has already said his standard "I'm fine."

He knows they don't believe him. Knows also that eventually they will stop asking.

It's his own fault, really. He's the self-appointed fixer. The one who tries to keep the atmosphere light, keep the negative consequences directed toward himself, and above all, keep everyone safe. Underneath his childish antics, he has tried to be the bedrock, the solid foundation that allows everyone else to feel stable, and he's done a god job of it. Good enough that people forget he sometimes feels tremors shaking his own foundations, that he needs someone to give him something solid and immovable to hang onto until his world feels stable again. The seismic shocks that are ripping through his life right now would register an 8.5 on the Richter scale. But he's spent a lifetime learning not to show weakness or need, and he no longer knows how to ask for help. As if he ever did.

And there's the rub. He wants help, would take it gratefully, but he can't ask for it. He's spent his whole life developing a façade that will keep people from getting too close, from seeing who he really is, but now, while the ground is falling away beneath him and he's starting that inexorable slide downward, he doesn't want people to take him at face value. He doesn't want them to accept "I'm fine" and move on. He wants someone to dig. He wants someone to drag it out of him, badger him until he gives in. He wants someone to say "No, you're not fine, and I'm not going to leave until you tell me what's wrong and let me help."

He wants so desperately to be worth the trouble.

He knows he's not being fair. He knows it's irrational, wanting the people in his life to prove something when they don't even know they're being tested. He knows it. But somewhere inside him is a little boy who doesn't give a crap about whether or not he's being fair, who just wants to be taken care of. To be tucked in at night and reassured that there are no monsters under the bed.

The problem is, no one ever tucked him in even when he was a little boy. And life has taught him that the monsters under the bed are very, very real.

…

This slide downward started with a simple comment. "Then get out of my basement! Man up and move on!" It wasn't much, really, in the whole scheme of things. Sure, the words were harsh, but after working with Gibbs for eleven years, harsh barely registers anymore. Only this time he hadn't been able to shake it off. Because that was the point, wasn't it? Eleven years. Eleven years of having the man's back, of putting up with his headslaps and his tantrums and his lack of trust. Eleven years of trying to be good enough to earn his respect and never quite making it. And then finally, finally realizing that he never will.

Man up. Man up? Sure he acts like a big kid, but somehow he's always thought Gibbs understood, knew it was just a game he played to keep the others on their toes, a way to keep things light. But it looks like Gibbs has bought the act, has always thought him childish and immature. Maybe even irresponsible. Which explains the lack of trust, now that he thinks about it.

He could have responded to that comment. Probably should have. Explained himself to Gibbs, cleared up some of the misunderstandings between them. Or he could have just taken Gibbs up on the next part of his statement and moved on. God knows it's time. Past time, really, especially with the way things have been lately. But to do either of those things, he'd have to have been angry, and standing there, seeing the disdain on Gibbs' face, he'd never gotten to anger. He'd been too undone by the first part of what Gibbs had said.

Get out of my basement.

Even after all the weeks that have passed since the words were spoken, the blatant rejection from someone he thought of as a mentor, even a friend, is nearly enough to drop him. He's still not sure how he managed to follow Gibbs up those stairs, walk out of the place he'd thought of as a haven, knowing that he would never return. The tiny little boy's voice in his mind had screamed and wailed. "No! I'll do better, I promise! Please don't make me go! I'm safe here!" Except he wasn't, of course. Apparently he never had been. So he'd stiffened his spine and followed Gibbs up the stairs, not allowing himself to look back. And the slide had begun.

He could still try to talk to Gibbs, deal with the elephant that sits large between them, but he knows it won't change anything. He's become a burden – probably always has been, if he's honest about it – and Gibbs doesn't want to deal with him anymore. As he has so often told his Probie, "There's the way things should be, and there's the way things are. You have to set aside 'should be' and deal with what you have. If you keep beating your head against a brick wall, you don't move the wall, you just give yourself one hell of a headache."

He believes that. Truly. He believes it. So really, there's no point in explaining, or arguing – or hell, begging – is there? It won't accomplish anything, and he'll just sound like he's whining. And whining is a fast road to punishment. It's one of many lessons he learned early in life.

Don't whine, and it's corollary Don't sulk.

Don't ask for things – you'll be told what you need and when.

If you don't make yourself useful, you're just a waste of space.

People don't value you, they only value what you're able to do for them.

He's learned his lessons well. He never whines about anything real, he only plays at it when he's trying to annoy his teammates. He never asks for what he needs, he just hopes that someone will care enough to notice the need and fulfill it for him. He tries to make himself useful by being the "go-to guy" – the pinch hitter, the problem-solver, the last-minute miracle worker. And he tries, so very hard, to be valuable enough to people that they will want to keep him around.

From time to time people have tried to tell him that he'd misunderstood somehow, that his perception of those life lessons is twisted, but those people weren't around when he was being taught. The lessons were very clear, and they were reinforced, often and painfully. There was no mistaking their intent. And the people who've tried to tell him differently are the same people who don't fear the monsters under the bed. They obviously have a skewed view of reality, because he knows the monsters are real. He's seen them. He knows each one of them personally. And he'll be seeing them again soon.

They live in the dark space at the bottom of the pit.

His downward slide is picking up speed now, and he sighs, knowing exactly where he is on this road. Yes, that is indeed The Point of No Return lying dead ahead. Before he can make even a token protest, or maybe offer a jaunty salute, it's whipped past and is disappearing in the distance behind him. There's no help for it now. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance…You've just crossed over into…the Dark Space.

…

His fingers brush lightly across his neck in a motion that's become habitual, finding the edges of the lump, testing the shape, thickness, density. Trying to determine if it's changed any since he discovered it a few weeks ago. The rational part of his mind says that he needs to go to the doctor, have it checked out. The scared little boy doesn't want to know if it's something bad. And a tiny part of him says to leave it alone, not tell anyone, let it go until there's no hope of stopping whatever has caused the growth on his lymph node.

Terms like Hodgkin's Disease and Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma spring to his mind, but they don't generate any fear, only a strange wistfulness. He's always known he would die painfully. All the times he's lashed out, fought back against the lessons he was taught, broken the rules in defiance, he's known he was inviting punishment. As cosmic punishments go, a slow, painful death seems a just one. He accepted that long ago, but somehow over the years he's stopped hoping to stave it off for as long as possible.

That tiny part of his mind, the one that keeps chanting, "Don't tell, don't tell," is like a Siren song, promising him ultimate relief. No more pain. No more need or rejection or doubt. No more waiting for the day the dark space will swallow him whole and not let him go again.

No more monsters. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd.

His fingers slide away from his neck and move down to adjust his tie. He gives himself a mental headslap – which he idly notes is less forceful than the last time he had this conversation with himself – and straightens his shoulders. He may be a waste of space, but he still has a responsibility to his team. He doesn't want to leave Gibbs in the lurch, make him train up a replacement. He'll ask Ducky to take a look at his neck when he gets to the office…

He jumps when his cell phone starts vibrating its way across the dresser. A smile ghosts across his face when he sees "Dispatch" on the display. His team needs him, Gibbs needs him. This is what justifies his existence, pathetic though it may be. This is what gives him value in others' eyes, gives them a reason to let him stay.

The Universe has spoken, and he sighs with deep-felt gratitude at the reprieve.

Ducky can wait until another day. It's time for him to go and make himself useful.

A/N: As always, my gratitude to Leydhawk who dropped everything to give me feedback on this story (without any forewarning, I might add). Thank you, my friend, for not taking "I'm OK" at face value.