Disclaimer: disclaimed
Oh my God you guys I'm back!
Grief is without words. There is no possible way to describe the feeling of holding the world on your chest, but almost letting it crush you because there's nothing worth breathing for. It comes like the ocean—unpredictable (one day you're okay and the next you can't breathe through the despair) and endless (because it's never gotten better, isn't better, and won't ever be better) and suffocating (it smothers and chokes and overwhelms like nothing else). It's something no one can ever adjust to, no matter how many deaths they face.
As the lower Mike into the ground, he realizes he's lost so many—too many. Senseless, meaningless deaths that good men and women didn't—don't—deserve. It's agony to think about, but the deep (dark, cold, lonely, terrifying) abyss stares up at him (like it does every time he loses someone, and that keeps happening no matter what he does and doesn't do)—again—and in it he sees them all: Kate and Paula and Jenny and Shannon and Michelle and Kelly and, now, Mike. And he can't look away.
Gibbs thinks that he's lost too many, and maybe if he repeats it enough, it'll come true.
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