AN: Thanks so much for all the kind words on the first chapter! Here's chapter two. Expect two more after this.

Tony smashed the emergency switch in the elevator and then pounded his fists against the wall hard enough to make the elevator shake, hard enough that it hurt. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to hurt so badly that he would be able to forget. But by the time he stopped, panting and exhausted, the only thing he had to show for his outburst were red and swollen knuckles.

He sank down into the corner and dropped his bag at his feet. He couldn't help but think of the time Abby spent most of the day camped out in the elevator, convinced it was the safest place she could possibly be. Tony didn't feel safe. He felt trapped. He felt like there was a hole growing in his stomach that was slowly destroying everything that made him him.

He sighed, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head in his hands. He couldn't stop replaying the day in his mind, from the instant he stepped onto the patio, opening the conversation with a mention of Adam's favorite sport, to the moment he caught motion out of the corner of his eye and knew that he failed. He reached for Adam, trying to stop him from lifting the gun to his temple. Tony even grazed his arm. He could still feel the brush of his fingertips against the kid's bicep, but it wasn't enough.

He wasn't enough.

He didn't remember much after that, just the warm blood splattering across his face. The familiarity of it almost made him sick. The next thing he knew, he was lifting his head to find Gibbs staring at him with too much concern in his eyes to be normal. Then again, nothing about this day was normal.

He didn't even care if Vance suspended him, or hell, fired him, for the scene in the bullpen. The moment the words came out of the Director's mouth, Tony felt like he'd been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat. Adam had been torn to shreds, so absolutely broken. His father had been the one person he trusted, he told Tony that. John had gone to therapy with his son, listened to him, convinced him he had a future. Adam confided to Tony that if he couldn't make it as a basketball player, he wanted to be a therapist, to help kids like him. Now, he'd never get the chance. How did a mistake like that happen, let alone get to the family?

God, Tony thought he'd made it out. He promised to take the kid to the basketball courts in the park, teach him a few moves. He even said he'd make a few calls to his alma mater, if that's what Adam wanted. Adam was smart, talented. He had a family that loved him. And now, as quick as it took a police officer to take a step, it was all gone. A mother without a son, a 4-year-old sister without a brother. A family devastated.

They'd trusted Tony to stop it. They'd trusted him. And he'd walked onto that patio like he could actually do it. But he should've learned his lesson after the kids in Baltimore, after Paula and Jenny and the mess with E.J. and Kade. After Ziva. He didn't save people. That wasn't him. He cleaned up afterward, but he didn't prevent things, or bring people back. It wasn't in him. He wondered how many more people he would hurt before he stopped trying.

Tony ran a hand over his mouth and finally stood, flicking the elevator back on to start his descent. It was a fucking shitty day if he ever had one, and he couldn't wait to get home and drink it away. As the doors opened on the ground floor, he couldn't help but think about Ziva, and how he finally understood the need to leave it all behind, to start over, to do better. He always thought Gibbs was a little crazy for running off to Mexico.

Not anymore.

His phone rang as he made his way through the parking lot and he grimaced as he glanced at the caller ID: Zoe. He forgot she was supposed to cook dinner for him tonight at his place. He couldn't do it. The idea of relaying his day to another person made him nauseous.

With a wince, he answered, "Hi."

"Hi yourself, Spider," she greeted. He could almost see her smile through the phone, "What time should I come over?"

"Yeah, about that," Tony tossed his bag in the backseat and leaned against his car, massaging his temple to try to force away the headache he felt coming. "It's been a day. Can we reschedule?"

She instantly sobered, "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, i just..." he paused. "I'm exhausted and I really don't feel like talking about it. Call you tomorrow?"

She was silent for a moment, "Sure. If you change your mind…?"

"I'll call," he waited a beat. "Good night."

He ended the call without waiting for a response.

He didn't even pause to take his shoes off when he got home, instead heading straight for the liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of bourbon. It had been gift from Gibbs around Christmas. It was top shelf, the kind Gibbs kept in his basement for painful anniversaries and particularly bad cases. Tony figured tonight fit the bill. He thought for a moment about grabbing a glass, but then changed his mind, drinking straight from the bottle instead.

He wanted to drink until he was numb, drink until he stopped seeing Adam's face every time he closed his eyes, drink until he wasn't replaying the conversation over and over again in his head. There had to be something he could've done, something he could've said that would've made Adam start to hand over the gun sooner. Maybe he should've just grabbed it, snatched it away before that cop ever had the chance to move. He'd let it linger too long. He fucked up. Again. And now someone was dead. Again.

God, that fucking cop. Tony knew he was just a kid. It was a rookie mistake. On some level, he knew that. But most of him was just pissed off that he was there in the first place, that he had the chance to change the dynamic of such a fragile situation so drastically. He should've been instructed by someone not to move a muscle. Maybe Tony should've given some instructions before he walked onto the patio. There had to be something he could've done differently that would've altered the outcome. There had to be. Maybe it was just not being there in the first place.

Could've. Should've. Would've.

None of that mattered now.

He collapsed back on his couch, sliding off his shoes as he melted into the cushions and took another long drag from the bottle. The taste was familiar, comforting. It had been after Jenny, when he was forced to deal with his grief alone on an ocean, with everyone he cared about thousands of miles away, split up and torn apart and broken. All because of him. He'd hated it then, but now he realized it was for the best. It was better this way, to handle things alone.

The thought of returning to the office tomorrow filled him with a cold sense of dread. He couldn't remember ever feeling that way about going to work. Ever since that fire in Baltimore, he'd wanted to be a cop. He loved it. He thought he was good at it. But over the years, it had all just stacked up. The mistakes, the heartache, the death. Tony wondered what it would be like to be someone else, an accountant or something. A librarian. Some occupation that didn't involve watching 16-year-old kids end their lives inches away from his face. There had to be more to life than this.

All the failure, that's what hurt the most. The blown undercover operations. Reaching for Paula, only to have the door slam in his face. Begging Ziva to come with him, but having to leave her behind. Jenny's blood on his hands. Adam's blood on his hands. He took another drink, the bourbon burning his throat and settling in his empty stomach. There had been a time when he bounced back from cases like this. He'd had plenty of rough days in Philadelphia and Baltimore, and even his first years at NCIS. But he was older now, and he was tired. Exhausted, really.

He was tired of all the failure.

His thoughts returned to Gibbs, how he walked out of the office and headed to Mexico all those years ago. Watching that ship explode had been his breaking point. He couldn't stay and watch anymore. Tony wondered if this was how it felt, to want to disappear, to leave it all behind forever.

A knock at his door pulled him out of his thoughts and he didn't move for a moment, raising the bottle to his lips again instead. He waited to see if the knocking would stop, if the person would give up. But it just kept coming, a hard pounding on his door that would bring complaints to the neighbors if Tony didn't answer it now. With a long sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, unsurprised to find the alcohol was already making him feel hazy. Good. It was working.

He swung open the door, unsurprised to find McGee standing on the other side. Gibbs wouldn't come here. He'd be expecting Tony to show up in his basement, but that wasn't happening tonight. Tony didn't want to see anyone, including the partner that was currently standing in his doorway. He knew Zoe wouldn't come either, and Bishop wasn't close enough with him yet. He'd already snapped at Abby. So that just left one person.

Tim shouldered his way in without asking, his eyes taking in Tony's disheveled appearance, the bottle in his hand.

Tony took a drink, "Can I help you?"

Tim stared at him, eyes drifting back to the bottle in his hand, "I wanted to see how you were doing."

Tony scoffed and lifted his arms out to his sides, "Oh, fucking fantastic, McShrink. How are you doing?"

"Tony."

Tony didn't respond, instead pushing past McGee to head back to the couch. His partner could stand there as long as he wanted, eyes filled with concern, but Tony didn't want to talk about it. He couldn't talk about it. Tim followed him over, but Tony didn't acknowledge him. He took another drink instead.

"Tony," Tim said again.

"Just leave me alone, Tim."

"No."

Tony raised his eyebrows, No?"

"No," Tim sat down beside him and took a deep breath. "When I killed that cop, you came over and you refused to leave. You said I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts that night. You were right."

"This is different."

"Yeah? How?"

Tony slammed the bottle down on his coffee table, "Because you were a kid, Tim. You had never killed anyone before. Me? I've been doing this a long time. Maybe too long. I don't need a babysitter."

"If you talk about it maybe—"

Before Tony knew what he was doing, he had the almost empty bottle by the handle. He sent it flying, crashing off his bookshelves. It sent a mixture of glass shards and bourbon across his hardwood floor. Tim flinched, rising as Tony stepped toward him, inches away from his nose. Tony's hands shook as he fought for some control.

"Maybe what, McGee? Please tell me," his voice getting louder as he continued. "What's going to happen if I talked about it? Can we go back in time? Will the Marines not mess up and tell that kid his father is dead? Will that cop not move? Will I be able to get that gun in my hand little sooner? Will it magically stop Adam from blowing his brains on his family's patio? Is that what will happen? Tell me, please!"

He didn't realize he had kept moving forward until he stopped ranting. He'd backed Tim into his wall, not giving him a chance to shy away. He was breathing hard, the rage and the absolute devastation hitting it's peak. So much for not thinking about it, or talking about it.

So much for numb.

He sighed, taking a step back as he fought to get his breathing under control, "Please just go, McGee," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper now.

Tim looked at him for a moment, and Tony was sure there was a trace of fear in his eyes. Instead of arguing, the younger man just nodded and headed toward the door.

McGee stopped right before leaving, his hand on the door handle, "I know you don't want to hear this, Tony, but none of this was your fault."

And then he was gone.

Tony stared at the empty space for awhile before turning back to his liquor cabinet, grabbing a cheaper bottle of bourbon to replace the one currently soaking into his floor. He didn't care enough to clean it up tonight. Let it leave a stain.

He walked back over to the couch, not bothering to turn on the television or pop in an old movie. There was no point. Nothing was going to calm his nerves tonight. There wasn't a distraction big enough to help him now. He took a long drink, willing the alcohol to fill this bloodstream, to take him over. He just wanted not to feel. All that ever did was get him into trouble.

Hours later, he sat in the same spot. Drunk, emotionally spent, and not feeling any better than he did hours before. He couldn't help but long for Ziva. He didn't know what it was. He loved Zoe, he did. But Ziva had been there after Jenny. Ziva had walked away from all of this, wanting to be better. She knew him. She got this. He just wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice, to tell her that he understood. He wanted to be better, too. He wanted to stop hurting people. God, maybe she was the smartest one out of all of them. Maybe she got it right.

He pulled out his cellphone, scrolling through his contact list to the very bottom. And there she was: Ziva. Almost the last person, right before Zoe. He felt a little guilty as his thumb hovered over Ziva's name. Zoe should be the one he called, the one he reached out to for comfort. But Zoe didn't know him in this kind of darkness. Zoe wasn't the person he needed to talk to.

He pressed Ziva's name before he could stop himself and lifted the phone to his ear. This would the the third time he'd attempted to contact her since they parted ways years ago. The first had been right after he landed, a simple text message. The second had been a phone call, about a year in, just because he missed her. She never answered.

This time was no different.

After listening to her voicemail message — it hadn't changed — he opened his mouth to speak, "Hi, Ziva," his voice was hoarse. "I don't know why I'm calling. Actually, that's a lie. I do. I just wanted to tell you … I wanted to tell you that you were right. You were smart to walk away from all of this. How the hell do any of us know if we're making a difference?" he paused. "I don't think I'm making a difference."

Tony ended the call and then turned off his cellphone, dropping it onto the couch cushion beside him. He leaned back, closing his eyes, not caring if he actually made it into bed tonight.

He wasn't going to work tomorrow.