Almost Home
NCIS: LA
By: Sprite
For: SilverSentinal21. Thanks for your support.
A small epilogue to: Human Traffic where when all is said and done Hetty insures Callen has a home of his own.
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He was laying on the floor looking up the ceiling. The ceiling of his new house. His house. Holy Crap. How was it he owned a house? What was Hetty thinking? He didn't know anything about owning a house. He didn't know anything about owning a potted plant.
Staring up at the ceiling he let the memories play across his mind and tried not to panic. This was panic, wasn't it? This cold, flighty feeling in the pit of his stomach that was making his palms sweat. This was his house. His house. Holy Crap!
The heat register in the hall made a thunking noise. It did that sometimes. Even when the heat wasn't on. The power wasn't on. A few more hours he'd be here in the dark. He resisted the urge to go check the door lock.
He looked over toward where the couch used to be. Mr. Rostoff used to come home from work every night and sit there, reading the paper, while Mrs. Rostoff cooked dinner. It was so Ozzie and Harriet. This was the one house… he closed his eyes and shook his head, banishing the thoughts, but new ones took their place.
He and Alina down the hall. She'd been adopted just a few months before he'd shown up. The Rostoff's brought her over from Russia. She was Mrs. Rostoff's niece or something, but Alina was adopted. Real family.
They would lie on the floor of their respective bedrooms, their feet up against their beds, their heads in the hall. The rooms were tiny, but neither of them cared. It was so much better than anything either of them had before. Her English was poor, his Russian next to non-existent. He smiled at the memory of her teaching him. The Rostoff's spoke a mix of Russian and English around the dinner table. He'd learned fast.
He had an ear for language. He still did. He learned Russian from Alina, Spanish from that kid from the orphanage in Torrance, a smattering of Japanese from when he worked after school at the dry cleaners in El Segundo.
He remembered the day he'd been caught by Mr. Rostoff carving his name in the edge of the door with a battered old pen knife he'd found somewhere. He thought for sure he was in trouble. Instead, Mr. Rostoff watched from the doorway before he dug into his pocket and handed over his own pocket knife. He'd stared at it before taking it. "Do a good job," Mr. Rostoff had said, "if you want it to last." He let him keep the knife, too. He'd kept it for years, until one place he'd stayed at wouldn't let him keep it. A weapon, they'd said. Load a crap, he thought, but what can you do when you're 16 and stuck in the system.
Shadows started to show as the sun went down, but he couldn't bring himself to get up off the floor. A car drove down the street and he listened to it as it rounded the corner, fading away. The fluttery feeling in his chest was back. He'd never been in one place for very long. Now he owned a house. Holy crap!
The house was quiet. He could hear birds in the trees. His tree, he realized. He owned a tree. The heat register thunked again. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He slept and for the first time in a long time, he dreamed good dreams.
12-14-11