A/N: Another story I had previously posted to Tumblr while I was trying to write one fic per night shift I worked. This was inspired while listening to "Maybe We'll Make It After All" by Stages and Stereos. The song breaks my heart and from it I worked up the courage to destroy my babies' world and begin to build it back up again all in a few short pages.

This is extremely AU and has no ties to any actual undercover operations in any of the episodes or any of the aired cases. It's just a look at what might happen if something were to go seriously wrong.

Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or the song.

Maybe We'll Make It After All

The shrill of the phone ringing wakes him from his nightmare. The dark of the room and pounding in his head remind him though that this isn't another nightmare, it's just the shipwreck that has become his life.

He musters enough strength to get off the couch and move to the kitchen, crunching a few boxes and beer bottles along the way. The caller continues to talk to the dead-end that is the answering machine, but the haze of depression renders him unable to identify its owner. It could be Abby or McGee, or even Palmer. Ziva has probably called a few times to make sure he has showered and eaten. The only one who hasn't attempted to reach out is Gibbs. Maybe it's because he can't understand how Tony can be so broken or he just can't bear to see it; chances are he just can't find the words to explain everything that has become of this.

Without giving the machine a second glance, he hits the delete button harder than needed. These days he takes his frustration and anger out on the small things; it's the only way he knows how. He can't carry a gun anymore; his pysch evaluation took care of that. Never in his life would he have imagined that one failed undercover operation would take his whole life with it.

NCIS was his life. It was a part of him. It was his family.

Now it was gone. The trauma to his body and to his mind took that way from him. Desk duty was too hard. It came with the constant reminder that he had failed in the worst way possible.

Now he has nothing.

Sometimes he wishes he had left when he had the chance. He could have run away from all the hurt, all the pain, and the constant reminders that this life would never be the same. The plane ticket had been purchased and an apartment was waiting for him across the country. A new start to life could have been his for the taking. But something stopped him. Running away had never been his style, and he refused to let this make him a coward.

He looks down at the confines of his wheel chair in disgust and desolation. A deep breath escapes him, and he opens the fridge, grabbing another beer.

I guess I failed at that too.

X

She messes with the keys, begging her hands to stop trembling. The shaking has been her constant companion these days. She blames it on the stress. The team has been one short for the past two months which means her and McGee have been picking up the slack.

The door finally gives loose, and her eyes settle upon the real cause of her tremors.

She throws the keys down on the coffee table, and slowly starts picking up the boxes. The beer bottles follow, one for each of the tears she has shed and each of his broken dreams. She washes the dishes, empties the trash, and takes a shower.

That's the only place she will let herself be vulnerable. She can't show her feelings; she has to be strong for him, for them.

The apartment goes dark, and she climbs into the empty side of the bed. An eerie quiet falls throughout the room and that scares her. The quiet is her enemy. So she inches closer to him, close enough to rest her head on his chest; it is only then that she can hear his shallow breathing and soft heartbeat.

And she let's herself breathe easy.

Just as she closes her eyes and feels sleep pulling at her, his voice breaks through the never-ending silence, "I'm sorry."

"Tony, you don't have to apologize," Ziva hushes, trying to keep the surprise from showing. It's the first sign of emotion he's shown since the incident.

"No. Ziva, I am so sorry," he repeats one last time before the sobs rack his body.

All she can do is hold him tighter and whisper words of comfort. She's not sure if it's the right thing to say, the right thing to do, but she does know one thing.

For the first time in two months, she knows he's going to be alright; they are going to be alright.