It was Jimmy Palmer of all people who did it. Two months after it happened and Gibbs was just as affected as he had been the day they'd found him screaming on the side of the road. They'd forced him to take 6 weeks off, six weeks of hell, which he had spent almost entirely in his basement, working on his boat and completely drunk. Trying to forget the feel of Tony's blood soaking into his back, of the sound of his ragged breaths, of that horrifying moment when he realized that his senior agent was dead and had died alone and in pain. It wasn't easy. It probably wasn't even possible. Still, he gave it a good shot, or two or three or four, bourbon making the pain die down somewhat, dulling it until Gibbs felt nothing. At least, that's what he told himself.

Returning to work was not the relief he had hoped it would be. He knew that he'd been hard on Ziva and McGee, that they were hurting too, but he couldn't seem to make himself do anything about it. Smiles and laughter, rare as they had been in the past, were non-existent in the present. He barked out orders without any of the underlying affection that usually accompanied them and his agents had lost their normal sense of companionship and warmth. Things were done in complete silence, conversation limited to barely mumbled greetings in the morning. Vance had talked to him, Ducky had talked to him, Abby had talked to him, but nothing seemed to matter. Gibbs recognized the feelings, had had them before, when his wife and daughter had been killed, but that had been his family and why the hell was this so bad? It had taken a few days, in between drinks and headaches and nightmares and vomiting, for Gibbs to realize that he considered Tony a son. A real son. A dead son. It hurt like a son of a bitch.

So in the midst of depression and anguish and heartache and inebriation, it was Jimmy Palmer who did it. He'd come in, timid as usual, but there was something different about him, so much so that Gibbs could see it even through the bleariness and haze. It was in his eyes, something hard and steel and entirely unlike Jimmy Palmer, and Gibbs wondered what in the hell was going on. Palmer had stepped into the elevator next to him, had looked him in the eye as he slowly and deliberately pulled the emergency stop on the elevator. Gibbs had started to growl out a demand, had been stopped by Palmer.

"Gibbs. Tony died to save your life."

He knew that. It hurt like hell. Of course he knew that.

"He died so that you could live."

What was he saying? And how the hell did he know Tony so damn well? With a pang of guilt and sadness, Gibbs recalled how the two men had bonded after his departure to Mexico. It made sense that they remained friends after that.

"Gibbs. Is this really living?"

And there it was. What everybody had been afraid to say to him, what he'd known in his heart but had refused to acknowledge. The elevator started up again and Jimmy got off, leaving a contemplative Gibbs behind. It hadn't taken long for him to decide.

"Ziva, McGee, campfire." He barked it out as usual, didn't miss the complete blankness of the looks his agents gave him.

"Boss?" McGee tried tentatively, looking utterly confused and somewhat afraid.

"Campfire. Now."

They obediently pulled their chairs together in the center of the room, pulled them into the ring formation that Tony had been so fond of.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs began, entirely uncertain of what he was going to say and taken completely by surprise when his voice cracked. "DiNozzo was a damn good agent and a damn fine man." And then he looked up and realized that McGee had tears in his eyes, a few escaping and trailing down his cheek before being sheepishly wiped away. Ziva's head was down, but she made small sniffling noises every few seconds, and Gibbs knew exactly what was happening. Finally he let himself cry, let the tears flow and then the campfire was a circle of mourning friends, allowing themselves to grieve fully for the first time. They stayed there for a long while, time seeming to slip away without any warning so that no one knew how long it had been when they finally gathered up enough courage to leave. Jimmy Palmer, of all people.

xxxx

Later that night, Ziva slowly browsed the shelves at Blockbuster before finally deciding to rent every single Sean Connery as James Bond movie. She whispered "Bond, James Bond" to herself in her best Scottish accent as she approached the counter.

xxxx

Tim allowed himself a small smile as he flipped through the channels before finally settling on a Magnum P.I. marathon, grabbing the pizza next to him as he watched, jokingly vowing to himself to try out the mustache that Tom Selleck rocked.

xxxx

Gibbs stepped down into his basement and carefully surveyed the boat. Nursing a beer, he looked it over one last time, ran a hand lovingly over the smooth wood, and went back up the stairs. He hesitated a second before turning out the light and shutting the door.

xxxx

A/N: So there it is, done; I actually got a bit choked up writing it (here's to hoping DiNozzo never, EVER gets killed off!) and thanks for all the lovely reviews. I appreciate them greatly.