The perpetually grey D.C. sky seemed to weep along with the hearts gathered, casting a muted pallor over the familiar brick buildings. The weight of the world, or at least the weight of his past, pressed down on Tony DiNozzo the moment his feet touched the tarmac. He hadn't wanted to come back like this. Not for this. But some goodbyes simply demand your presence, no matter the distance or the years that have passed. And this was for Ducky. Dr. Donald Mallard. The man who had seen through the bravado, the jester’s mask, to the lost boy and the brilliant agent underneath.
The funeral home was hushed, filled with the scent of lilies and the quiet murmur of shared grief. Tony recognized the faces immediately – McGee, older, wiser, a little stoic; Palmer, a pillar of strength, his eyes red but resolute; and then, across the room, the unyielding silhouette of Gibbs, a silent testament to a friendship forged in fire and loyalty. There were other familiar faces from various agencies, a veritable assembly of the lives Ducky had touched. Tony felt a strange mix of dread and longing. This was a farewell, yes, but it was also a reunion of a family he’d chosen, a family Ducky had helped to nurture.
He drifted through the room, offering nods, exchanging tight smiles. Each handshake, each shared glance, was a silent acknowledgment: We made it. We’re here. For him. His gaze fell upon a framed photograph near the casket – Ducky, smiling gently, a crisp bow tie impeccably tied at his neck. And just like that, the floodgates opened, not with a rush of tears, but with a torrent of memories, sharp and vivid, illustrative vignettes of a bond that defied conventional description.
He remembered the early days, a brash young agent, quick with a joke, quicker to escape the autopsy room. Ducky would invariably corner him, a glint in his eye, and launch into a detailed, often obscure, historical anecdote or a fascinating tidbit about the human body.
“My dear boy,” Ducky would begin, usually as Tony was edging towards the door, “did you know that the ancient Egyptians believed the heart was the seat of the intellect, while the brain was merely packing material?” Tony would roll his eyes, checking his watch, but Ducky would continue, undeterred, his voice a comforting drone. Tony would pretend not to listen, but a strange alchemy was taking place. Ducky wasn’t just dissecting bodies; he was dissecting life, philosophy, human nature. And somehow, through the long-winded tales, he was teaching Tony patience, observation, and the profound interconnectedness of everything.
Later, the memories grew softer, more intimate. Ducky was often the quiet confidante, the one who saw through Tony's feigned indifference after a particularly brutal case, or after another failed relationship.
“Are you quite alright, Anthony?” Ducky would ask, observing him over the rim of his steaming teacup in the breakroom. Tony would shrug, offer a flippant remark about pizza. But Ducky wouldn’t press, not verbally. Instead, he’d just… be there. He’d leave a book on Tony’s desk about a topic Tony had off-handedly mentioned, or perhaps a small, perfectly peeled apple. It was in these quiet gestures that Ducky spoke volumes, reminding Tony that he was seen, he was cared for, and that it was okay not to be okay. Ducky had a way of offering comfort without demanding vulnerability, a rare gift Tony hadn't known he desperately needed.
There were memories of shared laughter, too. Ducky’s sometimes-unintentional comedic timing, his bemused reactions to Gibbs’ grunts, or his gentle teasing of McGee’s tech-speak. Tony recalled a particular Christmas when Ducky had insisted on explaining the historical origins of mistletoe, much to the team's amusement, while Tony played carols on a kazoo. The office had been a haven, a second home, and Ducky, its eccentric, brilliant, and infinitely kind patriarch.
As the service began, Tony found a seat near the back, listening to the eulogies. Palmer spoke with a tremor in his voice, narrating Ducky’s meticulous nature, his boundless empathy, his mentorship. It was clear that Palmer, in his own gentle way, was carrying on Ducky’s legacy, not just in the morgue, but in the heart of the team.
When it was Tony’s turn to stand and share a thought, his throat tightened. He looked out at the faces, some wet with tears, others resolute. He didn’t have a perfectly crafted speech. He just had truth.
“Ducky,” Tony began, his voice surprisingly steady, “he taught me a lot. About history, about people, about what makes us tick. Sometimes,” he paused, a wry smile touching his lips, “he taught me about the importance of knowing when to just listen.” A ripple of quiet laughter went through the room. “But mostly, Ducky taught me what it means to be part of something bigger than yourself. He taught me about loyalty. About family. He saw things in me that I didn’t see myself. He believed in me, even when I was trying my hardest to be a pain in his… well, you know.” He glanced at Gibbs, who offered the barest hint of a smile. “He wasn’t just a medical examiner. He was an anchor. A guide. A friend. A father figure to many of us.” His voice thickened, “And he will be profoundly missed.”
The words hung in the air, weighted with the years of shared history. Tony sat back down, a sense of profound peace settling over him. It wasn't the kind of peace that erased the grief, but the kind that acknowledged it, honored it, and then held it gently. Ducky wasn't truly gone. He lived in every medical term Palmer used, in every historical reference McGee stumbled upon, in every silent look of understanding exchanged between Gibbs and Tony. He lived in the enduring bond of the family he had helped to forge.
As the mourners slowly dispersed, the D.C. sky remained grey, but it no longer felt like weeping. It felt like a soft, reflective silence, a moment of reverence. Tony DiNozzo, the once-cavalier agent who had chafed under Ducky’s gentle authority, left with a heart both heavy and full. He had come to honor a mentor, a friend, a father figure. He had come to say goodbye. But in doing so, he had rediscovered a piece of himself, and reaffirmed that the profound, quiet lessons of Dr. Donald Mallard would continue to echo, in the hallowed halls of NCIS, and in the lives of those he had so dearly touched.
