A\N: This one's for WolfReinMoon, who suggested the song. :D And Merry Christmas, because I'm feeling in the spirit!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.

"A Drop in the Ocean" – Ron Pope

Coming home was painful.

More painful than he had expected. And that was dumb. So dumb. Of course it hurt. What did he expect? Sunshine?

It was night.

Puppies?

In an airport? No. He was all alone.

Rainbows?

Night again. It wasn't even raining, no matter the humidity in the air that promised it.

Unicorns?

Someone's been reading too many fairytales.

And all that because he wanted to cry but the tears were stubborn, and they didn't want to come.

And what had always been his answer to tears? Stupid jokes.

Maybe that wouldn't change. It would be one of the few things that wouldn't. Because she was gone, and he wasn't supposed to stay the same. Nothing was.

And there it was. It was completely over. It hadn't felt that way, not until he felt the cold American concrete under his feet. This was home, right? (Didn't feel like it.) He had always been prone to denial.

He was hanging by his hands in a parking garage, a million years before, but he wouldn't die, because McGee would come for the save and Ziva had the driver responsible at gun-point.

He was tied to a chair, staring at the knife a madman was holding while his only backup was walking to her certain death, but he was gonna be okay, because Gibbs and Ziva were coming, and he was strong enough to take care of the madman by himself.

He was trapped inside a metal box, freezing cold, and there were men outside who were going to kill him, but he was gonna walk away with a scratch on his shoulder and a bruised ego because Ziva was there, and Gibbs and McGee were coming.

Ziva was taken by a serial killer, and they had no idea where she was, and it was different for some of them, but it was going to be okay, because he and Ray and Gibbs and lots of other people he didn't care about were going to get her.

He was in a desert with only Gibbs and McGee with him, and he was taunting and provoking his future murderer, and this time, this time, he wasn't going to be okay, because Ziva wasn't there, Ziva wasn't there, and the denial was gone because he wanted to die.

And then Ziva was right in front of him, and he was going to be just fine, because she had an arm over his shoulder, and Gibbs had killed her murderer, and she was weak, and she was coming home.

(In all those occasions, Ziva was the common factor.)

And denial was his friend, and he was denial's friend, but it left him when he needed it. Because Kate wasn't fine (denial hadn't worked there), and Jenny wasn't fine either (denial was slipping), and Mike wasn't okay, and Jeanne and E.J. and Ray weren't there. And Roy and Michael were gone too. Denial didn't work always, for him or for Ziva.

And, of course: it had failed just now. Otherwise, Ziva wouldn't have been left with tears on her face in that Tarmac with promises of what would probably never be. First of all, if denial hadn't failed, he'd never have allowed tears near her cheeks. He'd have kissed them away until she gave a sobbed chuckle, he'd have brushed them away with his thumbs until she looked at him with those warm (because warm meant dry) eyes that shouldn't, according to his book, look at anyone but him. Or he'd have cried too, until her tears were driven away by his own.

And the common element to all those possibilities was that those tears would go away.

And, secondly, if denial hadn't failed, she'd have been there, right there next to him, close, too close to him, murmuring about home and secrets, secrets he knew, secrets she would elaborate on when they were alone, together and feverish, and when they were in his apartment. Her hand would have been in his, she'd have been fine, without the darkness and the cold that wouldn't let her eyes warm the way he wanted them to.

And he'd prayed before, but he wasn't praying now, because praying was worse than not asking for something. Because if he wished, there was a possibility that his prayers would be answered. And disappointment and denial and optimism hurt more, so much more, than pessimism and expecting always the bad outcome.

If he had been optimistic, he'd have hoped, expected, that they'd end up together. And… where would all that longing and hoping have left him now? Now, alone, as he walked (rather aimlessly, even though he did have the aim of getting out of that airport) further and further away from her?

But he had. He had been optimistic once. That man that had expected her, and McGee, and Gibbs, to come help him when he was in no shape to do it himself, he'd been optimistic.

But now she was half-a-world away (he would know – he'd just travelled the distance, had just left her there) and he couldn't be optimistic. Because she was too far away for him to expect her to help him when he needed her to help. And besides, what did denial want with him? Him (they) were close to nothing, in a world so big that, unless fate was on their side, there were zero to no odds they'd find each other again. And, if they didn't matter, why did it hurt so much? Exactly because he didn't have fate on his side. Of course not.

So he wasn't that man. Now he was another one, the one that had expected death in Somalia, because he didn't want to expect life. But now, he didn't want to expect being away from her, so he expected to feel like a part of him was missing.

He wasn't optimistic any longer. Optimistic people read fairytales. He didn't have children to read fairytales to. And he had a nasty feeling that the one person whom he would have remotely bared to create a proper family with was the one who was so messed up with herself she'd needed to get away.

So yes. Someone (someone like him) had been reading too many fairytales. And now he wasn't anymore.

But, standing in that cold night (and it was raining now), alone, a plane in the background, and no Ziva by his side, he wished (oh God, how he wished) that he had a fairytale of his own.