Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tony stared, unseeing, at the two items on the coffee table in front of him. One, his service weapon – well-maintained, used rarely in the actual line of work, but for which he kept well qualified for its use. The other, his personal cell phone. Not the work phone that he nearly religiously kept on hand for the past several years; but the personal one that seemed to rarely be used or called anymore, as his work had swallowed up more and more of his life. Leaving him at this junction point, unsure which to pick up.

With a deep sigh and more introspection than most his colleagues would give him credit for, he reached for the phone and held it gently in his hands. Slowly he unlocked it and accessed the dial screen. With shaky fingers he input the numbers 9-8-8 and let his thumb hover over the call button.

Moments of indecision passed before he shook his head, deleting the numbers, and backing out of the keypad.

A momentary glance towards his firearm only to return his gaze to the phone. He opened and slowly scrolled through his contacts, vaguely wondering the last time he had spoken or even thought about many of the people listed. His scrolling briefly stuttered upon seeing ‘Caitlin Todd’ on the list. For a second he contemplated clicking it, just to hear her voice again, despite their antagonistic relationship. Then he castigated himself. Idiot. It's been years; no way her voicemail still is there, just waiting for your call. What a fucking moron you are.

Shaking his head at himself, he continued to scroll through his list of contacts, realizing he really hadn't looked through it with any intent in years; occasionally adding new numbers and pulling up known numbers only when needed. Seeing some of the names, he wondered if they'd even still have the same number. If they did, would they remember him? Or had too many years without contact or thought left him hardly a memory in too many peoples’ minds? Just another forgotten contact in a list that never gets updated? Just like his own.

Was he so easily displaced? Forgotten? Not worth anyone's time or energy? It seemed like, these days, he was always an afterthought, even to the people who saw him day in and day out.

He was self-aware enough to realize that these very thought patterns led him to where he was now. Looking at his gun like it was a solution and unsure how to use the phone in his hand to reach out for help he clearly needed.

Closing his eyes again, he tried to think of *someone* he could talk to. He started to somewhat desperately scroll through the names. Frat brothers; distant relatives; hook-up – both female and male; co-workers; cops from Peoria, Philly, and Baltimore; colleagues – even directors – from other federal agencies; military officers he knew; professors from classes he'd taken; even contacts from his time undercover in the Mafia. So many names, so many people – but were any of them close? Most he probably hadn't spoken to in *years*.

‘Friendly’ was not the same as ‘friend’. Would any of them consider him a friend? Or was he just another person that they'd met at some time; their paths crossing enough to exchange numbers and maybe the odd text? Even those he was on better terms with – had he ever done much with any of them outside of the rare pickup game or group activity? Was he only tolerated? Did anyone ever actually want Tony DiNozzo?

Hell, did they even know him? He’d been wearing masks of some kind or another since he was young – it's what made him such a great undercover cop and agent. Unfortunately, these days, he felt like he was undercover in his own life.

Who even was he anymore? Who was Tony DiNozzo?

His gaze strayed back again to his gun sitting on the coffee table in front of him. It seemed almost simple. It may not answer the questions, but it would give a final solution.

Fuck, he thought. He knew he wasn't in a good place. He knew the thoughts that had been running wild in his head – made worse in the silence of his home when work wasn't running him ragged – weren't healthy or normal. But he couldn't escape them either. They plagued (he let out just a small huff at the irony) his waking hours.

Once again he found himself scrolling through his contacts, more slowly this time, considering some of the names he saw with more thought.

Abby's name was there, near the beginning. He considered it briefly, but then discarded any idea of pursuing that. Things had become strained between them over the years. He couldn't really even say why. Just had the gut instinct that any attempt to reach out would either be ignored or end up with Abby as the focus. (Not him, never him. Even if he was the one who needed it most right now.)

Tony had many and varied contacts. There was the retired JAG and Admiral, a blind CIA agent, a couple colleagues from NCIS – Rick Balboa and Cassie Yates, and a former cop, now forensic pathologist, that worked at the Jeffersonian.

Brad Pitt. Doctor, dream career destroyer, life saver – now a fairly good friend. It had been awhile since they'd talked, as it seemed with so many. He had been heavily chastised several years back by the doctor after he had jumped into the river after Gibbs and his daughter's friend, Maddie, to save their lives. Unfortunately, at nearly the expense of his own due to his plague scarred lungs. Tony still thought it was worth it, but Brad had not been impressed. They hadn't seen much of each other since then.

Almost right after Caitlin's name, he stopped again on another lost friend he had yet to delete from the contacts list. Chris Pacci had been a good agent. Just another person Tony had failed through the years.

Ducky and several FBI agents followed closely – a couple from the BAU, another that was out in LA last he heard. Hell, even Fornell's number had somehow made it into her personal cell. He hesitated briefly and moved on, but thought he may be back.

He continued to scroll. A couple other NCIS agents’ names from other offices. Gerald, Ducky's previous assistant, before everything went to hell because of Ari.

Seeing Gibbs’ name on his personal cell reminded him that, at one time, he had thought of them as something like friends. As much as one could be friendly with your boss. But, still, at a time he would have not hesitated to call; certainly not for a phone conversation, but to see if he could invite himself over for the night. Cowboy steaks or just quiet company.

But that time was long in the past. Years, if Tony was being honest with himself and, right now, he was probably more honest with himself than he wanted.

More names that he recalled: a CSI lab tech from Vegas, a JAG officer he had saved from being wrongly convicted, an FBI sniper.

An even longer pause at the name of Jackson Gibbs. When had he added that to this phone? He recalled them being friendly enough the time they'd met. He had even pondered over time how different Jackson Gibbs was from his son; flexible and easy-going versus rigid and uncompromising expectations.

The elder Gibbs had seemed like someone that was easy to talk to. He doubted that he'd betray any sort of confidence. Then again, enough concern could have him turning around and contacting Gibbs; the last thing Tony needed when he was already a little (a lot) fucked up in the head.

Jimmy Palmer. His little autopsy gremlin. One of the few at NCIS that he considered to be *his* friend. But was Jimmy a mandatory reporter? Would he be obligated to report it if Tony tried to discuss this with him? And was he also reading too much into that working relationship? Tony had far too many people he had thought of as ‘friend’ that he worked with only to come to the realization that it was one-sided when they eventually betrayed him or turned their back on him.

He still considered Jimmy a friend. A good one. But could he put this on him? Could he ask for support from him, a co-worker? Someone who could theoretically be seen as subordinate, even if they weren't even in the same command structure. There could still be perception of a power imbalance there between a senior field agent and the ME's assistant. He didn't want to put Jimmy in a difficult position. He cared about him too much for that. He also really wanted to keep any of this as far from NCIS as he could. No matter how good a friend, he wasn't sure he could trust anyone that worked for NCIS with this.

The realization that he did want to truly talk it over with someone hit him. He was not just idly looking at his contacts anymore. He was purposefully trying to find *someone* he trusted enough with this, with him, with his life.

But was there anyone? It was a long list of contacts, but were any of them right? Should he go back to his initial thought and grow the balls to call the hotline? That’s what it was for, right? Since he had been thinking of… it. Killing himself.

It was a big step to him. Even in his mind, to address it by name. Suicide. Yes, he had been thinking about suicide. But a stranger didn't need to listen to him complain about why he considered a life that was, by most perspectives pretty decent, to be so terrible as to lead to him thinking about eating his own gun.

It had been a temporary thought. Right? Fleeting? Only, not really. It had become persistent and pervasive in a way that had led him to staring at his gun with the idea that it could all be over. He had almost called, but just couldn't bring himself to take that step. Either one apparently.

He looked again at his firearm in front of him. That temptation. He considered taking it away, putting it away, but instead turned back to scrolling through his contacts on his phone.

But, he did know, deep to the bottom of his soul, that if he didn't find *someone* to talk to, this cycle would continue. Even if it didn't end up with him dead, it would still be like the Reaper's scythe waiting in the background or the sword of Damocles hanging over him.

He smiled faintly at a couple of the contacts not too far separated from each other on his contacts list. A Honolulu Police Detective and his daughter. Tony knew the son was further down on the contacts list, too. When his father had left him behind in Hawaii, the cop had been especially kind to him – even brought him to meet his own kids and stayed in touch with Tony.

While Senior had once again charmed and, possibly, paid his way out of taking any responsibility for that mess – Tony was pretty sure the Detective had recognized his father for exactly what he was – a neglectful asshole. While there wasn't much he had been able to do, offering Tony his and his children's friendship had been invaluable through some of those hard times in his teen years.

Tony wondered how they all were. They had almost completely lost contact over time, especially since NCIS had all but taken over his life.

Then another failure on his part. His probie, Michelle Lee. So many ‘what ifs?’ What if she had come to him? What if he hadn't been sent afloat? What if Vance had more trust in him as an investigator? What if… what if… what if? She was dead and gone and branded a traitor now. Tony couldn't help her a few years later and six feet under.

Then a few criminals – Mike Macaluso and a thief and forger and his odd compatriot. Alleged he added, mentally. Last Tony heard, he had actually become a CI for the FBI. Speak of the devil, he was pretty sure he had the contact for the FBI handler in here too, following all his Paddington relatives that he kept together by their last name.

Oh, and yet another dead friend. Paula. The gun on the table looked better the further down he got the list sometimes.

Was there anyone on here that he could *really* talk to? That he trusted? That wasn't someone above him in the food chain? He respected them too much and hoped he'd gained their respect. He didn't want to taint that in any way. Anyone that wouldn't ridicule him or think this – or, worse, he – was a joke?

More scrolling. Another FBI agent, more NCIS agents…

And, then… there was Senior. He wasn't sure the last time he talked to his father. But Senior already knew he was a fuck-up. No need to have that reinforced, especially right now when he had no confidence in anything, least of all himself.

By the time he reached the end of the contact list, where some frat brothers and many current colleagues resided, his former fiancé, and a few other people he'd met through his career… he was still no more sure he'd found that *someone*.

With a sigh he set the phone down on the coffee table and instead picked up his gun. The weight of it felt familiar and reassuring in his hand, but also a little frightening. He simply held it there, in his lap, studying it. His mind running through the list of names he'd just been scrolling through.

His hands almost caressed the weapon as he turned it over in his hands, contemplating it. For a second he switched the safety off and his heart hammered in his chest.

NO

Quickly he flipped the safety back on and almost flung the gun back onto the table in front of him, only taking care at the last second to more deliberately set it down with only a small thud.

Hands trembling, he picked the phone back up again. More scrolling.

Scrolling… scrolling… scrolling.

Who knows how much time he had spent scrolling up and down his contacts list. Ruminating on so many people, but so unsure of himself and who, if anyone, he could trust. Eyes constantly drawn back to the table in front of him with a haunted look.

He came back to a name he'd passed several times already, but had paused each time. Something about it felt right, even if he couldn't exactly say why.

Taking a deep breath, his shaking thumb opened up the contact “Rossi”.

Again, his thumb hovered over the call button, indecision warring within him. This was a weakness the voice inside him hissed. He should buck up and go on with life. He wasn't some whiny girl who needed to share feelings.

While trying to push back his father's recriminations (he knew that's where that voice came from), his thumb suddenly hit the call button.

He froze suddenly. He almost felt sick and nearly rushed to end the call he wasn't even sure he meant to start. But then it began to ring… and ring… and ring.

Eventually it went to voicemail and he hung up before it could even finish.

He glanced at the clock. 10:37pm

You're a fucking idiot. Who's going to answer a near stranger at this time of night?

Maybe he should stick closer to home.

Ignoring his earlier reservations, he scrolled back up to Abby. She was a night owl. She wouldn't have issues with him calling this late. She was his friend…

Taking a deep breath to center himself, trying to sooth the adrenaline that had spiked before and with the last call.

Time to try again. You can do this.

He hit the call button, anxiety spiking again as the phone began to ring.

“Tony!” came the exuberant shout through the phone. Abby was clearly out and about, in some loud place. “How are you?!”

He opened his mouth, not quite sure how he was going to answer… but looking at his firearm in front of him, knowing he needed to talk to someone.

However, before he could even get a word out, she bulldozed right on, “You won't believe the night I'm having! I decided to go out to…”

As she continued on, Tony pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it first in confusion, then in resignation. Now he remembered his original reservations about calling Abby in the first place.

He pulled the phone back up to his ear to catch, “...you listening to me? Tony? You're going to be in so much trouble!”

Not even listening to anything else he quickly said, “Sorry, I have to go…” and hung up.

Dropping his cell on the couch beside him, he buried his face in his hands and tried to suppress a sob. How was he fucking this up so badly?

He took a couple deep breaths and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Once more he stared down his service weapon sitting there in front of him. He stared it down as if it was an interrogation and he was waiting to see who would break first.

He's not sure how much time passed, but he was torn from his reverie by his phone ringing next to him. Seeing Abby's name on the screen, he refused the call, but opened up his contacts list once again.

Briefly he considered calling Senior. Maybe he did just need to be told what a fuck up he was. Maybe it would be best if someone was just honest with him for once and reminded him what a useless waste of space he was. Senior had been telling him that his entire life. It wouldn't stop now.

No, he reminded himself. Help. Get help.

He wasn't quite certain why, but he ended up pressing Fornell's number next. It felt right. Someone who would care, but be straight with him.

Unfortunately, it went straight to voicemail, not even ringing. The other man must have his phone off or set to Do Not Disturb. It was late, Tony couldn't blame him. He wouldn't try calling twice more to try to override a possible do not disturb. He'd feel bad doing so.

He hesitated and considered calling Dwayne Pride. He respected the older NCIS agent, but didn't know him all that well.

In the end, the one he knew best… and who knew him best was Gibbs. He had been the one to see something in him and recruit him to NCIS. He made him his Senior Field Agent and they'd worked together for over 10 years now.

But things *had* changed. Most notably after the explosion and Gibbs’ lost memory. When he came back it was clear there were large holes. Tony still wasn't convinced as to how much Gibbs’ had gotten back. He also wasn't certain if there weren't other… effects… from the explosion. Gibbs had never seemed quite the same since that time.

Certainly, their relationship, both working and friendship – or what used to be – was not the same.

However, maybe that was still the answer. He should talk to Gibbs.

He picked up the phone – *again* rejecting an incoming call from Abby – to find Gibbs’ number in the contact list.

Once more Tony tried to calm the anxiety simmering within, causing his hands to tremble, his legs to jitter. His gaze fell yet again on the table in front of him and the thing there that had been mocking him all evening.

Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths. Inhaling through his nose slowly, holding the breath briefly, then slowly exhaling from his mouth. He absently rejected another call without looking while going through the breathing routine – trying his best to center and calm himself for his talk with Gibbs. Gibbs didn't *do* emotional.

Opening his eyes again, he stared at the open contact and pressed the call button for the fourth time that night.

“Gibbs!” the expected gruff voice barked into the other end of the phone.

After a beat of silence Tony was able to give a small, “Boss…”

“This better be damn good DiNozzo, to be calling this late at night!”

Caught off-guard and a little unsure how to respond, it took a minute before Tony was able to reply. “I'm sorry, Boss…” He was now flooded with uncertainty. Maybe this had been a bad idea.

“You’re sorry?!” Gibbs almost shouted with incredulity. “What the hell are you sorry about? Why are you calling? Do we have a case? Why are you calling from your personal cell?”

A *terrible* idea. Fuck. How do I get myself out of this?

“DiNozzo!!”

Shit! “Sorry Boss!” he nearly yelped. “No case!”

“Then why the hell are you calling me?”

“I… I…” Tony looked again at his gun in front of him. How did he say this? How did he ask for help?

“Dammit DiNozzo! Stop wasting my time!”

Then there was nothing. Gibbs had hung up.

Tony looked at the phone in his hands in disbelief. Though, he shouldn't really be surprised. Not really in the least. This all fit Gibbs’ modus operandi, especially for the past several years.

An anguished laugh tore from his throat. The hysterical laugh continued until it turned into heaving sobs, tears streaming down his face.

With a scream, Tony hurled his phone across the room where it crashed into the TV screen, cracking it while the phone fell broken onto the floor.

Useless. Useless. What good is it? What good am I? So stupid! Tony stared at the device that he had thought would save him. Instead, it had just brought devastation.

Trying to rein in his emotions once more, he felt an eerie acceptance as he reached once more for his service weapon on the table.

Looking over it carefully, feeling its weight in his hand, gripping firmly around the handle.

Once more he flipped off the safety, but this time there was no panic.

He had come to a conclusion.

Tony turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger.

***

It was late at night as the BAU's jet landed, the team all turned their phones back on or switched off their airplane modes.

David Rossi frowned when he noted a missed call.

Hotch, the first to notice the frown, asked, “Dave, what is it?”

“A missed call from an old friend… someone I haven't heard from in a long time.”

“Did they leave a message?” Spencer asked.

Dave shook his head, “No… and he called less than 30 minutes ago.”

The conversation had caught the whole teams’ attention as the jet was still taxiing.

“Isn't that a little late,” Morgan asked, then added slyly, “unless it's a different type of ‘friend’. Didn't know you swung that way!”

Rossi gave him an unimpressed look. “No, someone I met through professional means, he works for another agency… NCIS. He's an excellent agent, wonderful at undercover…”

“That sounds familiar…” Emily said.

“And he didn't leave a message?” Hotch reiterated.

Dave shook his head, “No, Tony didn’t.”

“Tony DiNozzo?” Morgan asked.

Dave nodded in confirmation, “You know him?”

“We've played pick-up games together at the Y – when he can get off work. He's an amazing athlete. He was big in college sports. Probably could have gone pro if it weren't for an injury his senior year.”

Garcia suppenly piped up from the computer, “I know Tony too! He's a great guy.” She frowned, “Works way too hard and I haven't been hearing good things lately about his situation over at NCIS – but he is an amazing agent and person. He's the type to go out of his way to help a person; sometimes at his own detriment.”

Dave nodded, “Sounds like the Tony I know. Let me try to call him back. I don't think he would have called without good reason.”

The others continued to discuss what they knew of Tony as Dave hit the call button to return the call. He found himself disappointed when he ended up getting the other man's voicemail. He left a brief message, asking Tony to call him back when he had the chance. Letting him know that he saw he called and, regardless, he'd love the chance to talk and catch up.

“Any luck?” Hotch asked when he turned back to the group.

He shook his head. “Voicemail. Seems we're playing phone tag.”

Aaron nodded, “Hopefully you'll hear back from your friend soon.” Then he turned back to the team, “Okay, I know it's late, but we are going to make a brief stop at the police station before we head to our hotel for the night…”

Dave listened to the instructions, trying to keep his mind on the case they had just been assigned. However, his thoughts strayed briefly back to Tony and he hoped he'd hear back from the younger man soon. There was something about the missed call that had him a little worried, but he wasn't quite certain why.

He'd feel better once he'd spoken with Tony about it.