AN: Probably one more chapter after this, maybe two. Thanks for the feedback once again!

Two days later, Tony switched his phone back on while he packed. He still didn't feel up to talking to anyone, but with plans to leave the country, he figured the least he could do was text Zoe. He probably owed Abby and McGee an apology, too. He sat on the edge of his bed, a single bag stuffed only with necessities at his feet. He didn't know where was going yet. He'd figure it out when he got to the airport, maybe just close his eyes and point. Tony had always loved to travel, but he never went anywhere unless it was to kill someone or chase someone. So, he was going to go somewhere, see the sights, try to stop the echo of a gunshot from waking him up in the middle of the night.

He sifted through missed phone calls and text messages. Abby had reached triple digits. McGee and Zoe had both tried to check in. There was even a text message from Bishop, offering her support. But there was one text that he didn't expect. He had resigned himself awhile ago to the fact that he would never talk to Ziva again. She had made herself very clear. She needed a clean break. That didn't matter the night Adam died, when he was drunk and desperate. Ziva must have heard that edge in his voice, because here she was, on his cellphone. A single sentence.

You made a difference to me.

That was all. No phone call. No follow-up. Just that. And that's all it took to stop Tony's breath. He ran his thumb over the message, knowing he wouldn't respond but just wanting to make sure it was really there. The chill that had settled over him since Adam died lifted for just a moment. He closed his eyes, dropping his head to his chest, forcing himself to remember how that felt.

Then it was gone, the pit settling back into his stomach. He closed the thread and texted Zoe to say he was sorry for shutting her out, that he was leaving, that he'd call when he'd get back. He apologized to McGee for the outburst, to Abby for snapping. He told Bishop thank you. He sent one more to Gibbs, just to say he'd call when he got wherever he was going to leave an emergency number. And then he turned his phone off again, opened his nightstand and tucked it inside.

He had arranged for his neighbor to feed the goldfish for the next two months, just in case he ended up staying away that long. He had no plans, no timetable, no schedule. All he knew is that he needed to get away, as if traveling across the ocean could send him back in time. He picked up his bag, casting a last glance around his apartment before he walked out, locking the door behind him.

He had called ahead for a taxi, planning the ride to the airport for the early afternoon. Less traffic meant minimal time at a standstill. He needed to be moving, doing something. It was the only way he could distract himself.

He was grateful Gibbs put in for his vacation time, even more grateful that he was handling Vance. The thought of walking back into the NCIS offices right now made Tony feel panicky, which was an unfamiliar emotion for him. He'd lived his entire life forcing it down, staying sturdy. Always thinking two steps ahead, always in control. When it came to flight or fight, everything about him was the latter. All the training didn't make him that way, but it cemented it. He wasn't supposed to blink when there was a gun in his face. He wasn't supposed to freeze when he was trapped. He was supposed to think his way out. But this time, he didn't know which way was up.

He didn't know how to get out.

It was probably a good thing he couldn't bring himself to go back to NCIS, because right now, he'd be nothing but a liability. He was doubting himself, doubting his instincts. That's how people got killed, and God knows Tony had enough of that lately.

He leaned back against the seat of the taxi, watching as the streets of the city streaked by outside his window. His emotions had been all over the place since Adam's death. He finally felt like he had a handle on the anger, like he wasn't going to jump out of his skin, or down someone's throat at a moment's notice. But what followed was almost worse. There was a kind of dullness that had settled over him, like nothing mattered, like nothing ever did.

Being a cop used to fill him with a sense of purpose. He was doing something, and what he was doing mattered. He wasn't one to believe in fate, but there was a part of him that felt like he was meant to be an agent. Even when his personal life went to shit, even when he'd been up for 48 hours or slept in his chair for a week, he wanted to be there. He'd built himself a home out of NCIS. The walls of the building were a house, the people a family. He swallowed thickly, running a hand over his eyes.

What else would he have if he walked away?

And yet, Tony couldn't imagine returning. He tried. He tried to picture himself walking back into the office, tossing his bag beside his desk, teasing McGee with a comment about video games. But it seemed blurry somehow, like an out-of-focus camera, a dream sequence in a movie. It wasn't real.

He saw the concern in Gibbs' eyes when he showed up in the basement. His boss clearly thought he was losing it and hell, maybe he was. But Gibbs got to lose it for a few months when he went to Mexico. It was Tony's turn. He couldn't go back to Washington without going back to NCIS. It wasn't possible. And so maybe that's what this was, a decision. If he didn't come back, then he didn't come back. He'd lived most of his life without a family.

He could handle it.

In the end, he ended up choosing Madrid. He wanted a place where he could forget who he was for awhile and in Spain, he wouldn't even have to speak his native language. He could talk in Spanish. He could be anyone. He'd booked the next possible flight, then wandered around the streets until he found a hotel with a room available. It was a nice one for the last minute, with a balcony overlooking the city and the traffic that streamed along the streets.

He'd spent most of the flight asleep, which he now regretted. He would be up all night. But he hadn't gotten a full night of rest since Adam. Something about the plane, the realization that he was getting away from it all, relaxed him. He drank two mini bottles of wine and then settled in to a mercifully dreamless sleep. The last thing he wanted was to jackknife awake on the crowded plane, courtesy of yet another nightmare.

Now, he was settling into the hotel room, unpacking the few clothes he brought and stashing the toiletries in the bathroom. He'd paid for two weeks, thinking he could either extend it either or go somewhere else. Or go home, if that's what he wanted. Tony sat down on the bed, grabbing the hotel phone and the phone card he'd picked up at the airport. He promised Gibbs a phone call, so he would give him a phone call. His boss picked up on the second ring.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

"Boss, it's DiNozzo."

There was a slight pause, probably Gibbs stepping somewhere private, "Where are you?"

"Madrid. Thought I'd practice my Spanish."

Tony could almost picture Gibbs leaning against a back wall in the office, "Abby is freaking out that you turned your phone off again."

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, "I'll send a postcard."

"How long are you staying?"

"I don't know."

"Coming back?"

Tony let out a long breath, "I don't know."

Silence for a moment, as if Gibbs was silently debating whether he wanted to keep pushing.

"You okay?" he asked finally.

Tony just clenched his jaw. It's not that he didn't want to answer Gibbs. Mainly, he didn't know what to say. He just stayed quiet instead. Seemed to work for Gibbs.

He heard Gibbs give a slight sigh and then speak again, "Be careful."

"I will."

With that, Tony placed the phone back into the cradle and fell back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Tony spent the next two weeks getting lost in Madrid's city streets. He didn't go anywhere in particular, didn't set out to see anything on any given day. He just walked, stopping for the occasional meal, stopping for the more than occasional drink. He'd made friends with the lady at the cafe next door to his hotel. She thought he was an interpreter for a medical company, and he found himself slipping comfortably into the persona, his undercover skills unwittingly coming into play. It was nice, to forget for awhile who he actually was, to not have to flash his badge every time he walked into a doorway. He was an interpreter on vacation who liked his coffee with too much sugar, and that was just fine with him.

But while he could fool everyone else, he couldn't fool himself. He wasn't Tony the interpreter on vacation who liked his coffee with two much sugar. He was Tony the NCIS senior field agent, who had bolted out of Washington, and liked his coffee with too much sugar. He felt lifeless, like he lost something and he didn't know what or where it was. More often than not, he still found himself thinking back to that patio, trying to talk Adam all the way home. He still woke up at night in a cold sweat, the sheets twisted in his hands. He hoped Madrid would change all that, but everything was the same. He still felt like he was going to implode.

The anger was back. Not as strong as before, not as violent. It just simmered, settled. It became a part of him. He was Tony DiNozzo and he was pissed off. Pissed off at the marines and the mistake they made. Pissed off at the rookie cop who moved too soon. Pissed off at himself for not saving Adam in spite of it all. Angry, deeply and intensely angry. He could control it now. He didn't let it show. But it was still there, and it was eating him alive.

He was walking back to the hotel now, planning to extend his stay for another week before he picked a new location. Maybe Prague, or Athens. He'd always wanted to go to both. He craved new streets to explore, new people to play pretend with. He was already working on developing a new identity to take. He could be a movie critic, a car salesman, a lawyer. He pushed through the door to the hotel, stopping by the front desk to pay for the next week. The concierge held up a finger to him and then slid a thick envelope across the counter. Tony glanced at the return address: NCIS.

Gibbs.

Tony should've known his boss would find him. Well, found him with some help from McGee or Abby or both. He paid for the hotel with a credit card, booked everything under his name. He wasn't hiding, he just wasn't reaching out. He thought everyone would just leave him be, but apparently that was too much to hope for. Tony clenched the envelope in white knuckles as he paid for another week in the room and then carried it upstairs, opening it as he sat on the bed.

It was a case file, a recent one, unsolved. It must have been what the team was currently working on. A marine's wife, murdered while he was overseas and dumped in the Potomac. Tony read a few sentences and then threw it against the wall, watching as the pages fluttered to the carpet. He guessed it was too good to be true, Gibbs sending him on his way, not interfering. Tony wondered what would've happened if he sent case files first class to Mexico. Tony thought he had all that anger under control, but suddenly it was boiling again. He wanted to light the fucking file on fire.

He didn't want it. He didn't want to think about work. Wasn't that the point of all of this? He stood, walking to the room's wet bar and choosing a mini bottle of bourbon. No glass, as usual. Right from the bottle. It wasn't until he tried to lift it to his lips that he realized his hand was shaking.

Damn it all to hell.

He sat on the edge of his bed, drinking and staring at the papers from the file scattered across his hotel room floor. He thought about calling Gibbs and telling him to fuck off, but he didn't have the energy. Gibbs would get the point when Tony didn't check in next time he moved. If there was an emergency, someone would find him. They were federal agents, for God's sake. They'd found him here, so they would figure it out.

Tony finished off the bottle of bourbon and grabbed another, enjoying the burn in his throat and then again when it hit his stomach. He drank the second one quickly, probably too quickly, and then grabbed his wallet and started for the door. Tonight he needed to get drunk, so drunk that he couldn't get lost in thought even if he wanted to.

He spared one last glance for the file, trying to suppress all the emotions it brought up, but he couldn't do it. He could almost hear Gibbs saying grab your gear, could almost picture the three of them in the squad room standing in front of the flatscreen. The night would be long, the days longer. Endless phone calls and car rides. Hours-long interrogations. He blinked, bringing himself back to the present, trying to ignore the rolling of his stomach. He wanted to hit something, but he'd settle for drinking something. He reached down, gathered up the pages of the file, and dumped it in the garbage.

He woke up still in his clothes from his night before, one shoe on and other buried somewhere in the sheets. He winced at the light streaming through the windows, throwing his arm over his eyes to block it out. His mouth was dry, his head pounding. He knew if he moved too quickly he would end up on his knees in the bathroom. He didn't remember much about his night, except that he ran into some traveling American businessmen. The last thing he could recall were tequila shots in a hole in the wall bar a few streets over. Somehow, he managed to get back to the hotel.

He slowly sat up, leaning heavily against the headboard. He'd thought enough the night before to leave a glass of water and some Advil by the bed, and he downed both greedily. Tony wouldn't be going much of anywhere today if this hangover had anything to say about it, so he just closed his eyes, letting himself take the day one step at a time.

He had tried so hard the night before to make himself forget, but the more he drank, the more he seemed to remember. Forgetting NCIS was like trying to forget his own skin, to crawl out of it and never thinking about climbing back in. He was being assaulted from everywhere now, all of the guilt and headache and misery on one side and that fucking case file on the other. Jenny's blood, Jeanne's tears, Adam's heartache against the marine in the team's new case, who just wanted answers. He felt responsible for all of it, and the confusion had him wanting another drink.

He didn't want the responsibility. That's what this was all about, wasn't it? The fact that he had other people's blood soaked so deeply into his skin that he would never get it out. It all piled up. It was too much. It made him feel frantic and inferior. He wasn't good enough. He couldn't save the people he so desperately wanted to save.

And yet.

You made a difference to me.

He side eyed the file in the trash can by his bed, reaching for it before he even realized what he was doing. He slowly put the pages back in order, slipping them back into the folder. Then he closed it, stared at the front, running his fingers over the NCIS logo. Just because he read it didn't mean it was coming back. Gibbs was just playing on his natural curiosity as an investigator. And that's all it was. Curiosity.

Tony swallowed hard, unsure if the nausea was from his hangover or the weight of what he held in his hands. But he couldn't fight it.

He opened the file, and started to read.