You're not there.
It hits me all time, usually when I least expect it. I try to be ambivalent about it, but I fail dismally in the attempt. It's more painful than I ever thought it could be. The others don't see because I'm good at hiding things like that. I always have been.
Just like you are. Were.
Maybe if we both weren't so driven to hide our true selves, things would be different. You'd still be here. I wouldn't catch glimpses of condemnation from Ducky and Palmer; fleeting looks of disappointment from the others when it hits them too, that you're not there. The other's masks are much thinner; more transparent than mine. Or maybe it's intentional…they want me to know; to see what I've done.
I don't need them to. Do they think I don't already realize? All I have to do is look, and see you're not there. And I know I'm the reason why.
I look across the bullpen at your empty desk and the most profound sense of wrong settles over me every time. It feels even worse now that McGee has moved over. I should tell him he can be SFA just as well from the same damn desk he's always used. I want to. Ultimately, I know I'll relent and let him stay there. Maybe I'm not the only one who can't stomach looking over and seeing you're not there.
We still get the job done, but things aren't the same without you. I don't talk about it, and maybe that's part of the problem. I don't talk about how I miss the chatter as we grab our gear and crowd into the elevator, or the boyish call for the 'shotgun' seat as we rush for the sedan. I don't talk about how I almost say your name when I give the assignments to sketch and shoot, bag and tag, or conduct interviews. I never tell them about how I still look for you working a scene, or wait for your input on the case and it never comes. When things get dicey, I look to see who's covering my six and it's jarring to see McGee or one of the others. Because I forget you're not there.
It's only now that I realize how irrevocably woven you still are in the fabric of our lives. When I'm home alone in the basement with nothing but bourbon, scrap lumber, and my own dark thoughts for company, I wonder if the next boat is going to have your name on it. Because I look over at the stairs; the third step from the bottom and you're not there.
I wish I could go back to when it still might have made a difference and change things. Do better…be better.
There won't be any second chances this time. I can't alter it, all I can do is live with what I've done. Actions have consequences and I have no one to blame but myself.
You're not there.
~End~
AN: Where's Tony? Is he gone; did he leave? Is he...(gasp) dead? I don't know. I left it intentionally vague for effect.
Several readers who commented expressed an interest in what might have happened. As a result, I have an idea budding for how to continue this. Feedback has a way of doing that ;) Can't promise when, so please consider a writer follow if you'd like to know when the companion story is posted.