A/N: So here it is. A new update. I hope you guys like it despite the fact that it's, well, a bit melancholy. And please remember to review when you're done!

III. Reassignment

Tony holds Senior's funeral in April, but otherwise, the next few months float on in relative peace. The job is rough – crime, murder, and late nights are routine – and that's what Tony and Ziva choose to focus on.

There simply isn't anything personal left to say anymore. Tony still doesn't remember what he said that night, but he does realize that he probably got embarrassingly sick and whiny that night and has no desire to bring up that mess in conversation – or ever go drinking with her again, for that matter. And Ziva, determined to ignore the incident as well, follows his lead and exchanges nothing more than polite, friendly banter. Any flickers of electricity from that night have long since snuffed themselves out.

But their world changes irrevocably once again, about six months after Tony stayed at Ziva's, when Director Vance offers Tony his own team in North Carolina.

The proposition is made quietly, with Tony getting called up to Vance's office and being told there was a place open for him with a couple of rookies and an excellent senior field agent. At first, he is so shocked that words fail him for a minute or two; then his brain finally unfreezes and starts thinking fast.

The last time this kind of promotion was put forth, it was Jenny sitting behind the desk, offering him the team in Rota. And back then, he had decided he wasn't ready and had chosen to pass, stay with Gibbs's team a little while longer. At the time, it had been a good decision, even though he knew fully well that such a good promotion might not come again.

But now it has. The offer has appeared on the table one more time – and it's closer to home, too. Vance gives him a week to make up his mind, but he grins slightly as Tony sees himself out, as though the director already knows that the answer will be yes. And, by all objective standpoints, the answer should definitely be yes. Yet Tony can't find it in him to say the word so quickly, because all of a sudden, that horrifying prospect he had procrastinated before is back – a world without Gibbs, McGee, Ziva, Abby, or Ducky.

Even if it might be good for his career, he can't imagine not working near them everyday. It can't be good for his soul. Can't be.

He remembers leaving home for college all those years ago, eighteen years old with everything to prove. That hadn't been too hard; his home had never really been much of a home anyway.

But leaving this building, this team?

The thought of it makes his stomach turn hard and cold and cannonball straight towards his toes.

So, like the last time, he sits on the offer in silence, tries to think it through. But unlike the last time, he drives out to Gibbs's place three days after Vance approached him. The innocuous little house on the familiar dark, quiet street sits the way it always does – the window shades closed, the air still, the door unlocked.

Tony goes straight to the basement and of course that's where the boss is, leaning against the counter and staring critically at a half-finished boat. He looks up as Tony descends down the well-worn stairs towards him, but he already knows something important is on Tony's mind. Even if Gibbs had not noticed a strange, subtle distance in Tony over the past couple of days, the sound of his footsteps is all wrong. Too hesitant, like he's nervous about something.

"Evening, boss." Even his smile is all wrong – too tense, too polite.

"Evening, Dinozzo," Gibbs says calmly.

And then he just waits.

Tony stands before his boss and quietly agonizes for a few seconds longer, then gives up and tells Gibbs everything – getting called up to Vance's office, the offer, the deadline, Vance's knowing smirk, the consideration that has gnawed incessantly at him since then. Gibbs listens closely, his expression impenetrable. His face has a hard, carved sort of look to it – almost as though he had fashioned it out of wood too, like his boat.

When Tony finishes his tale, he asks, his voice now as hesitant as his feet. "So…what do you think, boss? Should I go for it?"

Gibbs doesn't answer right away. He mulls the idea one over for a long moment as he pours out two glasses of bourbon.

Then—

"Well, I don't know, Dinozzo. Do you think you should go for it?"

Gibbs holds out a glass. Tony accepts it, sips at it for another long moment.

"I think…well, that I probably should."

"Then there's your answer."

Tony pulls up a stool, his expression still troubled.

"I mean, I know I should…but I don't know if I can."

Gibbs pulls up a stool too, one of the legs making a whiny scraping noise against the floor of the basement. He fixes his senior field agent with one of his cool, almost deadpan stares, giving nothing away but almost x-raying Tony's soul, sending an inexplicable shiver down his spine.

At last, he says solemnly, "If you pass this one up, it should be because you're not ready, not because the rest of us aren't ready."

Tony takes in the sight of his boss of so many years – the silver hair, the cornflower-blue eyes, his ratty sweatshirt and his faded jeans and this smell of bourbon and wood and coffee that makes him feel safe in the world – and downs the rest of his drink in one big stinging sip.

"Do you think I'm ready, boss?" His eyes are uncharacteristically vulnerable, like a child seeking reassurance before making his first steps alone.

Gibbs gets up heavily, picks up a well-worn sander and approaches the boat.

"I think you're ready," he says quietly. "I think you've been ready a long time."

He begins to sand the side of the boat, the steady rhythm of the moving sander like a lullaby now. Tony stays sitting on that stool a little while longer, just to keep listening to it, keep smelling that smell, watching his boss patiently smooth out every single imperfection in the wood until he deems it right. Then, smiling slightly, with his heart lighter and more melancholy than it's been in three days, he shows himself out.

Tony tells the team about his decision with his signature brand of jovial humor the next morning.

McGee walks into the office disgruntled due to a morning rain shower that soaked him through. He grumbles about the bad weather and asks Tony if he's got an extra sweatshirt or something lying around. Tony says no with an enormous grin on his face and McGee accuses him of withholding the sweatshirt just to get the pleasure out of seeing his probie suffer. Ziva smirks from her side of the office, checking her email but watching the progress of this conversation over her computer screen, while Tony feigns deep indignance.

"Well, that's not very nice, McGrumpy," he says. "How would you feel if I were to leave here tomorrow to peddle my talents where they are better appreciated, and the last thing you ever said to me was an unfounded accusation?"

"I'd feel just fine, since you're not going anywhere," says McGee.

"I wouldn't be so sure, Tim," says Tony, shaking a finger at him. "There are other people in this world who don't take me for granted, you know."

McGee just wrinkles his nose, baffled. But Ziva's eyes narrow slightly, and she asks, "Like who, Tony?"

"Like…like, I don't know, people like our director, for instance," he says. "Or…or people in the fine state of North Carolina."

Ziva's eyes narrow further; McGee begins to catch on too.

"Wait…people in North Carolina? Tony, have you been offered a new job or something?"

Tony fake-clears his throat loudly, his expression more somber now. "Well, now that you mention jobs and North Carolina…yes, I have been offered one there very recently."

They are silent, eyes wide.

"And?" demands McGee. "Are you going to take it?"

"Well, if all I get for my efforts here is an allegation of withholding a sweatshirt like a freshman in high school—"

"Answer the question, Tony." Ziva's dark eyes are suddenly alight with something he can't quite put a name to.

He sighs. "Yes, Ziva, I'm going to take it. I told the director this morning. I leave for North Carolina in a couple of months."

The two are still silent, eyes even wider now, mouths slack and open slightly. Tony looks from one to the other, his heart hammering.

"What, no congratulations? No apologies for false claims? No I'm-going-to-miss-you-Tony? Geez, what's wrong with you people?"

"Well, of course, congratulations, Tony," says McGee hastily, getting up to shake Tony's hand. "It's just…wow. This is…unexpected."

"I know," says Tony. "But it's a new team in the North Carolina office, and they want me out there, and I figure, you know, this is probably never going to happen again. I should take the opportunity before it passes me by."

"That makes sense," says McGee.

"Anyway, I cleared it with Gibbs last night. I will be leaving in a couple of months. But hey – don't tell anyone else yet, all right? Particularly Abby."

"Okay," agrees McGee. "Of course. You should tell them yourself."

"Yeah." He smiles, though with less bravado than before, now that the secret is out and his team-mates are every bit as surprised as he had expected them to be.

McGee goes back to his computer, though a slight crease remains between his eyebrows. Tony expects this when he looks up to glance at the probie, try to glean what he is thinking.

What he doesn't expect is the stark, conspicuous silence from Ziva's desk that lasts not just after his announcement but also for the rest of the week. She congratulates him, of course, gives him a surprised but genuinely warm smile, yet afterwards she stops talking to him altogether, unless she's referring to the case. Almost like her throat is too thick and her insides too leaden to conjure the energy necessary for a personal conversation.

He reminds himself that he'd had three days to get used to the idea that their tight-knit team will be short one very special agent, torn at the seams after so many years of holding strong against all the odds. But she has only heard about it now. And she appears to be having as much trouble with it as he has – perhaps even more so.

He isn't sure whether he should be sorry that it's finally time for him to leave this insulated nest, or relieved, because he isn't the only one who feels this looming separation like an ironclad fist to the heart.

Out of everyone he has to tell about this decision, telling Abby is the hardest. She looks at him with wounded green eyes when he breaks it to her and then falls on top of him in a rib-smashing hug. She tries hard to be thrilled for him, but she is devastated by the idea that their little family really won't be a family anymore. She understands, of course, why he did it. It's a wonderful opportunity to advance his career, one he should absolutely take. Tony has been here, working under Gibbs's wing, for a very long time. It's time to move on. But she hates, hates, hates moving on. Always has.

Abby's mood is infectious; the rest of the team feels the weight and reality of Tony's decision keenly too. This good-bye isn't temporary; this assignment is not a relocation. This whole thing is permanent and it's almost too much to bear. This era of their lives is really going to be over now.

Tony has a month to get his things together and then fly out to North Carolina. The last night before he leaves, the team throws him a little party and presents him with their parting gifts: McGee gives him a booklet he has written himself – "Computer Hacking and Tricks for Dummies," for when McGee isn't around to be his tech lackey. Ducky gives Tony a couple of books on crime from his personal collection. Jimmy Palmer gives him a stack of DVD's. Abby presents him with a giant Abby Care Basket, full of pictures and candy and Caff-Pow and even a stuffed penguin she has given an Abby make-over. She informs him that the penguin is supposed to sit in a prominent place on his desk everyday and she wants photographic evidence that it is indeed there, once he gets settled in. Gibbs gives him a wooden miniature sailboat – hand-carved. Ziva places a slim, plain black box onto Tony's desk and tells him to open it later that evening. And, though his interest is highly piqued, he agrees.

For some time, the seven of them stand around in the office as the lights go off around them, the conversation light and effortless but nevertheless flowing determinedly. It weighs heavily on all of them, how precious tonight is. How it truly is the last of its kind, the last time all of them are together this way. But the inevitable moment of goodbye looms and looms and presently arrives – and when it does, they all fall silent, somber.

Tony gathers his gifts tenderly, puts them in his bag to take home and pack. Abby is the first to kiss Tony on both cheeks and give him a rib-straining hug. Ziva, too, kisses his cheek and gives him a hug. Jimmy Palmer gives Tony one of his awkward but sincere hugs. McGee shakes his hand, but then thinks better of it and gives him a short, tight hug. Ducky fends off Abby, who wants to give Tony another hug, and hugs him as well. Even Gibbs comes forward and briefly hugs Tony – something that leaves him touched, but speechless. The subsequent slap to the back of his head is more like it; he cracks a wistful grin, knowing he'll probably get phantom pains there the rest of his life when he knows he's screwed up.

He heads slowly, painfully, surely towards the elevators, drinking in the sight of them collected together like that, the tiny group of people he loves so much. He tries to memorize their every last detail: McGee's thin face and sweet smile; Ziva's straight toffee-colored hair and exotic scent, like ginger and cinnamon; Jimmy's curly hair and Harry Potter glasses and Ducky's bow-ties and the smell of disinfectant in Autopsy; Abby's black lipstick and infectious laughter. And Gibbs – his silver hair, the wrinkles set so deeply in his face, the formidable, omniscient look he has that renders the human soul unsafe from his scrutiny. Gibbs, with that tiny smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, saying, go, it's okay. Good luck.

And then it's finally, finally time to leave – step into the elevators for the last time, find his car, drive away.

It's one in the morning and Tony is finishing up the last of his packing, tucking the team's gifts into his carry-on bag. And that's when he remembers Ziva's plain black box, which she told him to open later. He gently pries open the lid, his curiosity burning.

Underneath a thin layer of black tissue paper, he finds a knife. It's an old one; the handle is obviously worn and soft with use. But it's a fine knife, and in good condition – recently cleaned, the blade shiny, glinting in the half-light of his bedroom. He picks it up, considering the weight of it. It fits comfortably in his palm.

There is a note at the bottom of the box.

This is one of mine. Use it well.

-Z

So she decided to give him one of her old Mossad knives. He rubs his thumb up and down on the handle, wondering what its story is, how many people have lost their blood, limbs, lives to it. He's lost in thought for a few moments, holding Ziva's knife, thinking about the Ziva who had used it. The Ziva with the wild curly hair and the bandana and the do-me smirk, who seduced and killed and waltzed into their office just after Kate died, never dreaming that she would stay so long, that she would become Tony's partner, that she would soon give way to a Ziva with straight hair and an investigator's badge and an American passport who turned into one of their own. Who gave him this part of her to keep.

He sighs wearily, shakes the memories from his head like a recently-drenched puppy shakes off water. He places the knife back into its box, devoutly grateful that he chose to open Ziva's gift now and place it safely into his check-in bag. He can only imagine the hell he would get in the airport if that were found in his carry-on luggage.

The days after Tony's departure are flat, strange. His desk is conspicuously empty. Vance tries to suggest a replacement for Tony, but Gibbs just gives him one of his Looks and Tony's desk remains resolutely empty. Ziva and McGee keep staring at it several times a day, pretending not to catch the other doing so. Abby plays funeral music for weeks.

Gibbs makes sure they are plenty busy, but the chemistry of the group feels off. McGee is now be the senior field agent and Ziva is his partner, and they work together very well, but they feel Tony's absence almost as the third person on the team. They do not, perhaps, miss his silly antics, but they do miss his laughter, his insight, his movie references. And there are too many moments now, when McGee will be down with Abby and Gibbs has gone to speak with the director about something and Ziva is alone in the bull-pen, doing all the background checks by herself.

Tony's reassignment is hard on all of them, but it hits Ziva the hardest. McGee and Abby have each other, and Gibbs and Ducky have always been good at somehow moving forward, even in the midst of tumultuous change. She feels unprepared, somehow. She had two months to get used to the idea that he was going to leave, but now that he's gone, the person she would have related to best in this situation has gone too.

She sends him short chatty emails once every week or two, and he responds back equally short and chatty, and it's nice to hear how North Carolina is, how his new team is, how he's settling in, but it's not the same. Not even close. They've never been short and chatty and it feels strange to start now.

She knew she would miss him when he went, but she didn't know she would miss him the way she is. She didn't know how seeing his desk quiet and unoccupied every morning would hurt as much as it did the first morning. She feels kind of lost without him. McGee is sweet, and Gibbs is, well, Gibbs…but Tony is obnoxiously, blatantly, wonderfully Tony and he wasn't just her coworker, he was – and is – her friend. She needs him around more than she cares to admit.

One night, as Ziva is packing up to go home, McGee asks her if she wants to go out for a drink. She is surprised – they have never been the type to go drinking together after work – but she accepts and they meet up at the bar. The one she likes, where she took Tony after his father had died.

They sit inside at the stools, order their drinks. Ziva goes for whiskey. She doesn't usually like it, but tonight she needs the kick, the burn in her throat as it goes down. McGee goes for a margarita. They drink responsibly, make some pleasant small talk, and head out to their cars to go home at a reasonable hour.

It's nothing like it was with Tony that night in that bar. No understanding silences, no overdosing on liquor, no insane drunken speeches or vomiting. It's nothing like it was with Tony even when Tony wasn't grieving, because when Tony and Ziva spent time together after work, having a drink or watching a movie or anything, there was always some banter or insight, a weird, quiet confidence they had in each other that she couldn't explain or comprehend but that existed between them anyway.

McGee is a wonderful man, and a good friend, but she does not feel the same way with him. The same intimacy, the same electricity. She does connect with McGee, but they have only politeness and a kind of superficiality to their conversation and they simply don't get each other.

She arrives at home and goes to bed and lies awake for several hours, staring at her ceiling, wondering how long it will take for Tony's absence to feel natural, or at least less like someone has accidentally set off some depression gas at the office that saps all the humor and life and joy from the air.

The same night, Tony crash-lands to bed after an insanely long day, following promising leads that went nowhere and still trying to get comfortable with a probie and a newly-instated special agent following him around, looking for directions. The job is good, he knows he has made the right decision, but Neil Hartman and Liz Stein are not Tim McGee and Ziva David and he, Tony, is not Gibbs. There are still growing pains all these months later, trying to connect with and love these perfect strangers.

He lies there in the dark, staring at a foreign ceiling and listening to the air conditioner hum, for a long time before sleep finally claims him. And the next day, when he arrives at work too early, he sits around at his desk, staring around at the other desks, all of them lit up gold with the weak morning sunlight. If he slows down long enough, he finds that he feels as empty as they are.

Tony starts up his computer and checks his voicemail. Abby's care package penguin watches him intently from its spot on his desk. Ziva's knife sits heavy in its place at his waist. People are typing and talking on phones all around this floor. He wonders vaguely how Gibbs did it, that horrible summer when he, Ziva and McGee had all been reassigned. How he could stomach saying good-bye and moving on and starting over with a new bunch.

But the elevator makes that ding! sound; Hartman and Stein are here. There is work to be done.