A/N: Well. I haven't much to say for myself really, other than life has been extremely busy and I've hardly had time to catch my breath. I've missed you all! One thousand apologies for my promised summer fic that was, alas, an epic fail, as far as summer fics go. I do, however, come bearing a peace offering, of sorts, so long as my muse remains close and life allows brief moments to be stolen and dedicated to writing . . . I have absolutely no idea where Season 9 will take us, my friends. But this is my season, picking up where we left off at Pyramid and disregarding anything that shall occur after that first phoof on the premire tonight. I feel that this author's note is inadequate, and I worry that this piece may prove to be simultaneously more and less than what I expect. But we shall see. Ready? Much love and keep the peace, Kit.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything.

"PROLOGUE: WHEN THINGS FALL APART"

The sky is threatening rain.

Again.

The clouds are thick and black and ominous as they hang heavily over the parched city. The radio station is calling for inclement weather and while he isn't one to doubt wannabe meteorologists, he decides, ultimately, to keep the jury in until he arrives at the office. Because, frankly, Gibbs' knee is a more reliable barometer than any interpretation of satellite images.

He slaps the spacebar twice and the computer monitor hums to life. He's just gotten settled behind his desk and is trying to take a sip of coffee when the elevator dings sharply and he jerks slightly in surprise, his chair rolling back, scalding liquid splashing his thigh and he had to he wear a grey suit to work today.

"Little bit jumpy this morning, DiNozzo," McGee acknowledges with a smirk as he passes Tony's desk and the man behind it, blotting furiously at his pant leg with a napkin. Tony just offers a dry, "Ha-ha," his face scrunched up at the blossoming stain. "Probie! Do you have one of those bleach pens?"

McGee glances up from his monitor with a quirked eyebrow, "You're going to put bleach on colored fabric?"

"No . . . Do you have one of those color-safe bleach pens?"

"Bleach isn't color-safe," McGee states, staring at Tony like he's crazy.

And Tony merely rolls his eyes heavenward, "God help me. Do. You. Have. A. Stain. Removing. Pen?"

"No."

There's a thud as Tony's forehead connects with his desk and a strangled groan is issued into a neat stack of paperwork. McGee watches amusedly for a few brief moments before another thought occurs to him and he asks guardedly, "Why'd you assume I would even have one?"

Tony lifts his head up to regard McGee with a hybrid expression of incredulity and exasperation. "'Cause aren't good little Boy Scouts always prepared?"

"DiNozzo, we've been over this," and now it's McGee's turn to be annoyed, "I was a Webelos."

A pen cap is neatly lobbed at the younger man's head as Tony declares, "Same difference, McTide."

Gibbs sweeps into the squadroom, omnipresent Styrofoam cup in one hand and a manila file in the other. Steel blue eyes fall on both men, now dutifully working, noting McGee's greeting nod and Tony's usual, "Mornin' boss." In fact, the normalcy of the scene is downright unsettling; he half expected some sort of cosmic upheaval to be apparent, some sort of shift to have occurred in the light of the present situation.

Green eyes flicker upwards and Tony asks, "We got a case, boss?" And Gibbs merely blinks before shaking his head slowly.

He doesn't bother sitting down or softening the blow that waits to fall from his lips. There is no easing into the conversation; there isn't even a conversation to begin with. No introduction, no warning, no clever segue.

"Ziva resigned last night."

"What?" McGee's eyes snap to Gibbs as the younger man rises from his chair, shock clearly written across his face. "What do you mean 'resigned'? She quit?"

"Ziva resigned last night," Gibbs repeats with no more finesse than the original announcement. "I take it she didn't talk to you?"

"No! I-I would've talked her out of it –She quit?" Oh, Lord, please don't let Abby find out.

"You know anything about it, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks, attention falling on his senior agent. The color has drained from Tony's face as he sits, utterly still and totally dumbstruck. The sky suddenly releases the rain it had been holding back, the droplets falling to splash against the windows.

He slowly shakes his head, shifting his jaw, trying to get it to work properly. His eyes flicker to Ziva's desk and he inhales, replying, "No. . . . Maybe she went with Ray."

McGee chokes out a sarcastic bark of laughter that sounds inappropriately loud. "You think Ziva eloped?" he asks, aghast. "Are you insane?"

And Tony just looks tired. "I don't know, Tim," he answers, massaging his temple, "Maybe."

"First Franks, now this . . . What do we do, Boss? Cell records?"

"Leave it," Gibbs says, finally lowering himself into his chair. "Leave it alone. She made her decision. Let her go."

Let her go.

Because that plan worked so well last time, Tony thinks with another lingering, forlorn look to her desk.

. . .

He woke up with a tension headache, the pain starting at the base of his skull dully throbbing as he went about his morning. By the time a call rolls in around nine and Gibbs orders Tim to go gas the truck, Tony finds himself with a full blown migraine that Advil won't even touch.

The case is open and shut, a naval officer having been found dead in his apartment by his girlfriend of three years, apparently hit over the head, when, in fact, he'd fallen in the shower and stumbled into the living room, promptly expiring on the rug. It takes Ducky less than an hour to announce that the cause of death was an aneurysm that burst upon impact with the towel rack; the only reason the case took the better half of a day is the fact that, somehow, Corporal Pierson's remains took a four hour detour in which they were unaccounted for. Aside from that minor setback, there's the hysterical girlfriend, an ill-tempered Gibbs, and the migraine from hell.

And the fact that Abby's lab is still mourning along with the Goth herself, agonizing over the loss of two people very, very dear to her. Because Mike Franks has been dead exactly one month, eight days, and a handful of hours. And Ziva David has been gone exactly one month, ten days, and too many hours.

When eight-thirty rolls around and Gibbs dismisses his agents, Tony is both exhausted and restless as he gathers his things and shuts off his computer monitor.

"You got something you need to say, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks without looking up after McGee disappears into the elevator, having moved faster than Tony in making his escape.

Tony inhales deeply, steeling himself. "Yeah, boss, actually, I do."

Blue eyes flicker up to meet hazel in a gaze that is impatient and expectant.

"Vance offered me the Rota post last week," Tony says on an exhale, the words running together in a rush.

Gibbs blinks. Waits. Prompts, "And?"

"And," a deep inhale, exhale, and, "I said yes."

Gibbs nods, his attention returning the file he'd been writing in, and Tony just stands there, slightly stumped. Ziva's been gone now for over a month, May having bled into mid-July with August rapidly approaching. The MCRT is already down an agent with no motion being made to fill the empty desk and Tony has just announced that he's leaving another vacancy and Gibbs doesn't seem the slightest bit perturbed –not that he ever seems perturbed, but still.

"You have nothing to say, no cryptic advice, no ass backward rule, nothing?" Tony asks, incredulous after the older man's silence stretches on too long. "I said I'm taking the post."

"I know what you said, DiNozzo," Gibbs says pointedly.

"And?" Demand has crept into the younger man's words

"And what?" Gibbs asks, looking back up at his senior field agent. "Good for you, Tony. Really."

Tony studies Gibbs critically and Gibbs smirks when it all clicks together in the younger man's mind. "You knew," Tony finally manages in disbelief. "You already knew."

"Well, yeah, DiNozzo."

"Vance told you."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Tony blinks, paused in thought, and then finally concedes, "Okay."

"Okay," Gibbs repeats.

Okay.

. . .

He presses two keys on his cell phone, hits send. And somewhere another phone pings and a pair of dark eyes read the brief message: OK . . .

AN2: ?