It felt odd to be doing this again. Odd to have to do it a t all. And no matter what others said, you never got used to it. Pain was pain just as surely as the grass is green.
The sun is shining unforgivably. The glaring brightness should not be here now. There should be rain and clouds as if the sky is weeping.
His suit is too tight, and it pulls at his the skin on his wrists, but he doesn't mind, after all, it is a distraction.
He forces these thought away as the solid, oak coffin is lowered into the ground. Dirt brushes the side, leaving delicate strokes on the light-colored wood. He finds that he can not stop from closing his eyes and picturing the good moments.
Mourners lined up to bid their farewells, but his feet are rooted to the ground, and he cannot move.
All he can do is picture that last moment, over and over. He falls to his knees and the tears spring from his eyes.
This is all his fault.
Slowly, almost in a daze, he pulls out his pistol and holds it to his head. He pulls the trigger.
And the last image Tony saw was the small, delicate flowers bursting from the ground. The sky clouded and it began to rain. It all seemed fitting.
After all, if Ziva is dead, then why should he not be as well?