If Only For Your Good

by Illyria13

There is nothing more frightening than the monster that hides behind the face of a loved one.

If Only For Your Good

By Illyria13

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the characters or the lyrics or anything that you might recognize. They belong to people with money.

Timeline/Spoilers: Not really any that I can think of; It is set in season 1 because Dom and Renko are there but that's it.

Warning: domestic violence/abuse, possible suicidal ideation or rape (in later parts, if at all), slash

This is the most important part: This fic will be SLASH. And not just slash, but a threesome. THREESOME. As in THREE characters together in a romantic/physical relationship. In the case of this story, it is three guys. If this is not to your liking, then you are welcome to not read it. Please do not flame or send nasty reviews. Consider this your warning.

Notes: This story is going to be at least 2, if not 3, parts, similar to my Flashpoint fic "Swim 'Til You Drown". I do not know when the next part will be posted so I apologize in advance for the wait. I will complete this story no matter what, but I cannot say how long it will take me.

I'd also like to point out that this story is a bit…different for me. Most of my stories are long, introspective character studies wherein I focus mainly on character depth and thought processes of a single character. This one still has this, however, I have done a bit more of action/dialogue than I am used to. So I'd very much like to get your opinion on how well I do (or how well I don't do).

Lastly, a shout-out to Lynxgoddess and Rgs38 for all the help you've given me. I appreciate all the insight into these characters that you've provided! And look Lynx, I've finally finished it! Well, the first part, anyway.

Summary: There is nothing more frightening than the monster that hides behind the face of a loved one.

Part 1: Covered In Secrets

/

There's no kindness in your eyes

The way you look at me, it's just not right

I can tell what's going on this time

There's a stranger in my life

You're not the person that I once knew

Are you scared to let them know it's you?

If they could only see you like I do

Then they would see a stranger too.

-Hilary Duff, "Stranger"

/

"It's not like she's asking for the moon, you know? It's not like she's asking for flowers, or diamonds, or trips to Italy. She's just asking you to be nice. The thing is, you can't do it. You can't do it because it's not in your nature."

-Flashpoint, Season 1, ep. "Asking for Flowers".

/

We all bend. Like a single reed against a raging river, a solitary tree in a tempestuous storm, we all falter under the strength and might of forces greater than us. Adversity grows through surviving such things, from rising above the hands that shove us to the ground and the feet that kick to keep us there. It is an inner strength that is cultivated as the years of our life go by and what we all learn, sooner or later, is that bending is merely a part of being human.

We break, too. Under the right conditions, after the proper application of the exact amount of force, when we reach the point where we can no longer tell what is truly us and them, we break. And it happens to everybody; on our brightest days, during the longest of nights, we look in a mirror and no longer recognize that which looks back. The world pushes us and we stumble, getting back to our feet only to be pushed down again and again, until the moment comes where getting up requires more than we have left. It is then that we break; break until the pieces are lying scattered around us in dozens of unfamiliar shards.

We bend and we break, we stumble and we fall, and through it all, we lose a little bit more and a little bit more of the person we thought we were. But just when we think we can't take even the tiniest bit more, when we think we've reached the point of no return, when we desire to do nothing except lay down and take the battering blows, something comes along that changes things.

Something, or oftentimes, someone.

/

Staring up at the man towering over him, blood dripping from his mouth onto the carpet beneath him, Nate couldn't help but wonder where it had all gone wrong.

He'd been happy, once. At least, he thinks he was. It's hard to remember after the pain and trauma of the past few weeks. Or, he wonders dazedly, has it been months? He hopes not because a part of him doesn't want to believe he'd let things be like this for so long. He doesn't even understand how he let things get this bad to begin with.

Everything had been good at first. But isn't that how all stories began? With happy people and loving acts, with kisses and dinners and nights spent in each other's arms? With joy and affection, passion and desire, and the possibility of something more? Because that's the crux of the matter and what he realizes that he misses the most: possibilities. The possibility of love, the possibility of happiness; the possibility of a lifetime spent with another person.

But therein lay the problem, the one thing inherent in all possibilities: they are not concrete. There are no certainties. There are only hints, glimpses of what might be, of what could happen. And might and could are intangible things, things that we want but cannot have, things that exist without actually being. They are things that we can reach out and touch, like a fragile brush of fingers against shadow followed by withdrawal as we realize that it will never be ours. Despite our desire, despite our wishes, despite the spark of hope dwindling in the deepest depths of our souls, these things are unattainable. Intangible.

Nate understands intangibility. He's felt it many times in his life, security and life ripped away by singular moments, irreparably damaged and damaged irreparably, helpless and hopeless and lost. Like the perfect family changed by a single moment, the chance to get away from a cold and distant house, the goal to become someone instead of another drifting soul; all things just out of reach, just out of touch, there for the taking if only he could grab hold. And 9 times out of 10, he'd overcome, succeeded, conquered every barrier that had stood between him and what he'd wanted.

Okay, maybe more like 8 times out of 10. It still counted.

So when he finally thought he might be happy, might have finally found something concrete and real and tangible, it was only understandable that he'd be floored by the fact that it would be taken away from him. Except it wasn't understandable, because he should have seen it coming, should have known that things were too good to be true. It was the way things had always been, the way things always went, and thinking that this time would be different had been his undoing. Because he should have paid attention, and realized that the fact he thought he might have found something (someone) to be good in his life was a far cry from having found it.

Having something is sure and definite. And this is what he has always wanted: something that is a possibility to become more, to become his. To be able to grab hold of the thing that he has chosen; to walk away holding it in his hands and not have to look back or feel regret for choosing it. Because it is his choice, unhindered and solely his own, with no concept of anything but what he wants. Because he has what he's chosen and chosen what he has, and the surety in such a choice is enough for him to be happy, if not content.

Apparently, his choices need some redefining.

Another hard punch accompanied by a kick to his chest made him curl up painfully, and he wrapped an arm around his ribs in an attempt to protect them from further damage.

He realizes now what he should have known then and it is that this thing he had, this relationship, was nothing more than a smokescreen; a bittersweet illusion of everything he wanted superimposed over a cold reality.

Because what had been good, what had seemed right, had become something that he regretted, something that he feared. It had changed, like all things do, because change is as much a part of living as everything else. And they'd become wrong, become different; become unrecognizable to what he used to know. What were left were merely the remnants of a happy dream and sooner or later, even that would be gone. And all that would be seen when looking back on these memories is pain and blood and violence.

It scares him. He hates that he's scared.

He was a lost little boy who thought he'd found his Prince only for the Prince to become the dragon, full of fire and fury and brimstone. He was trapped in a cage of his own making, with no one to blame but himself.

He stares up at the other man, looking at a face that he knows but doesn't know, and realizes that things hadn't just gone wrong.

They'd been wrong from the very beginning.

/

The dark bruise next to his left eye glared at him accusingly from the mirror.

Gingerly, he lifted his hand and palpated the skin, wincing at the sharp pain that lanced through the area. With a sigh that was silent even in the quiet of the bathroom, he picked up a small bottle of concealer and pondered it for a moment.

While he didn't want them to know the truth, he also knew that if the rest of the team spotted make-up on his skin, they'd know there was a reason to question such a thing. He'd rather face the inquisition that would occur from the sight of the bruised skin rather than the one that would result from an attempt to hide the damage, particularly through the use of concealer. He had a chance of walking away from the first one; they'd lock him in a room or tie him down and forcefully yank the truth out of him if they suspected the latter.

Because hiding something speaks of secrecy and to the agents on his team, secrecy is the context of the world they work in, of the world of crime and greed and a lust for power. Secrets are signs of bad things, of things to be hidden because they're too ugly and too dark to be brought into the light of day. And part of the job they do is to uncover those truths, to peel back the layers and expose them.

They're good at it, all of them, but Callen and Sam excel where others fail. They have an innate sense of knowing when they're being lied to and the uncanny ability to call someone on it. They're reckless also, but in a controlled sort of fall; they will hunt until they've reached the end of the earth and then they will go further, tireless and unceasing in their search. They have absolute restraint on themselves and each other, and together, this formidable duo has absolute power over those around them. It makes them dangerous, but none more so than when they've sighted their prey in the din that surrounds them.

Nate admires them, for their power and their control, but he envies them as well. He envies their power and their control; for the absolute stillness in every decision they make, as if they can see all the outcomes and have chosen the one most beneficial to them. But most of all, he envies them for each other, for the fact that these two men have found everything they could possibly need or want from the world in each other. And that bond, that inescapable, never-ending connection, is so palpable it's noticed by everyone. It's why the majority of the people who meet the two men never try to come between them- they value their lives too much.

What's most incredible about it is the fact that Sam and Callen are oblivious to the attention they draw. He supposes that it's either something they've grown used to or that they really are that blind to the people around them. It's probably a combination of both. The world moves around them while they remain stationary, the calm at the center of the storm, until they decide to move. And then they explode, into a flurry of motion; they become the storm instead of remaining in the middle of it. It's another thing that makes them so formidable-it's difficult not to bow to a force of nature. Especially when faced with two of them.

He's not afraid of them, though. He's seen the contents of their files (at least, what wasn't redacted or so highly-classified that a nuclear missile wouldn't be enough to blow through the red tape) and done psych evaluations on them both; they're dangerous men, highly skilled and good at what they do, but they have morals. They have a conscience. And above all, Sam and Callen are good men. He's never had to question that and he knows he never will.

It's one reason why he himself is drawn to them. When he's near them, he feels safe; like he's untouchable, like the world would never attempt to harm him simply because of their presence. And another part thinks that even if an attempt was made, Sam and Callen would protect him; fight back with all the power and fury they keep tightly leashed.

He looks back up at the mirror, fingers lightly tracing the bruises on his skin, before he reaches out and touches his own reflection. Even though this isn't the first time, he can hardly believe it is himself he's looking at. A deep sigh escapes as his hand drops away from the mirror, falling back onto the counter next to the bottle of concealer, and he realizes that he is tired. Exhausted, really; a bone-deep tiredness that always remains, hiding under his skin in a steady throb. And as much as he tries to hide it, he knows that it's starting to bleed through. His senses are dulled, his reactions abrupt and more of a startle reflex than anything, and he's quieter than usual. He knows all of this, can admit these changes in his demeanor to himself, and yet he's still keeping his secrets.

He slams his fist into the counter with a dull thud, the sound reverberating back to him in the stillness of the room. The brief moment of anger is gone as quickly as it appears; the exhaustion returns, accompanied by the sharp burn in his eyes indicative of tears. He looks into the mirror again and opens his mouth, desperately willing his throat to work, to form words that speak of the truth behind his lies. But nothing comes out because nothing works, and nothing is what he has become. He closes his mouth then and keeps his silence, knowing that this is neither the first nor the last time.

And he swallows the tears, swallows the hurt; swallows down all of the violence, because the thing about violence is that it is ruinous. It permeates the skin, digs deep into souls, and leaves behind scars so massive and cavernous they are nearly impossible to scale. It comes between people and wrecks lives, leaving behind broken pieces of people too jagged to be put back together. And it is constant, if unpredictable, because the two things human's excel at is violence against each other and violence against themselves.

Nate is used to violence. Not in the same way that Callen or Sam or even Kensi is, but familiar nonetheless. While the others' experience is first-hand, usually in acts against themselves, he tends to get it through the lives of others. In his studies, he's seen the worst of humanity and learned not to flinch at the horrors on a page or screen. But nothing compares to coming face-to-face with the victims. In counseling sessions, he's heard stories of abuse and degradation, of loneliness and loss, and felt the overwhelming sorrow and pain of those left behind, unable to cope with the trauma they have gone through.

And behind every one of these stories are people; people who are riddled and broken and ruined by the actions of others. They are lost, drifting in the tide, all because of what other people have decided to do to them. And what Nate has realized is that the evil inflicted upon people is horrifying, no matter the type or severity of the crime. There's always some that tug at the heartstrings more, true, but in the end, what he's seen through the eyes of people is enough to keep him up at night.

And now, he's one of them. It's like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, an icy splash of fear that races down the spine, and it takes everything he has not to scream. His whole life he's worked towards helping people, trying to show them other ways to live and ways to cope with what's been done to them. How can he ever look another battered woman or abused child in the eye and tell them that everything will be alright? That they deserve more than what's happening to them, that the violence reflected on their bodies is not their fault?

He's a hypocrite, and that truth is like ash in his throat, bitter and choking.

He knows this is wrong, knows that by refusing to tell others or to seek out help, he is only giving power to his abuser. Because that's what this is; it's an abusive relationship with an abusive man- the bruises on his skin are proof of that. And Nate is only deepening the cycle of abuse by allowing it to continue.

Because it is an allowance. He can tell himself differently all he wants, but when it comes down to the bottom line, he could tell somebody. He has people who would help him, people who would stop it, and Nate knows that this, this whole situation, is wrong. But deep down, the real truth is that he's too afraid and too ashamed to tell; because this was his choice, and he'd thrown everything he had into this relationship. And if it gets taken away, if he loses it, he's not real sure how much of himself will be left.

It is a strange thing to be afraid of losing something that only causes him pain, but it has become a part of him, a part of his soul, and he's far more afraid of what would happen if it was gone. This relationship has come to define him and the realization is staggering.

How had it come to this? How had he let himself fall this far?

But the mirror has no answers and all his reflection does is show the truth: that this, all of this, is a reality to which he cannot admit and one he could never hope to understand. And the truth is never an answer-only the things that people are too afraid or too broken to face.

He throws the bottle of makeup into the trash but the minor victory is overshadowed by the bruises on his skin. He spends his whole way to work coming up with an explanation, examining and discarding lie after lie until he settles on something that most resembles plausible. But to his surprise and inner relief, his team buys it, and if Callen's eyes linger on him throughout the day and Sam makes a comment or two (or three) about buying foam padding for the psychologist's apartment, well, Nate could just pretend that those were the product of his over reactive imagination. Nobody knew he was lying, and even if they did suspect, who would believe that sweet, studious, unable-to-lie-to-save-his-life Nate would be lying to his team? It's preposterous, ridiculous; ranked right up there with Eric secretly being a Russian spy sent to download top-secret, military information to then be passed on to his government in order for a hostile takeover.

Right?

Because Nate had no reason or inclination to lie. He's a man who spends most of his time trying to convince his teammates to let go of their lies and trust him with their secrets. He's a man who respects a person's privacy, but knows that there's a difference, a necessity to push, when it comes to their physical and emotional well-being. And he's a man who'd known as soon as he met them that lying to his team was no way to gain their trust.

Sometimes he wonders what their reactions would be if he told them the truth. And then he stops wondering, because he's too much of a coward and too in love with denial to ever break his silence.

A few days later, there's a new bottle of concealer sitting on the counter of his bathroom, and a matching one in his car.

The problem with falling is that there's nothing else to do except fall, and nowhere else to go but down.

/

Once upon a time, there was a boy. A boy who'd been afraid to love, afraid of watching another person walk out on him like his father had done before; afraid of letting someone close in case they realized he was not worthy of their desire or attention. He spent all of his time trying to help others, trying to show them that their problems were not unsolvable and that there was more to life than despair and pain.

And then this boy met another boy, a caring, loving boy that showered him with kindness and affection, who touched him with gentle hands and made him feel special. And the boy finally thought he too was worth more than he'd always believed. He smiled and laughed, felt happiness and joy, and finally began to live.

He fell in love, and everything was right in the world.

But then, things changed. Kisses became biting, a caress became a punch and a touch invoked a paralyzing fear, and the boy now knew that the fairytale was over. With the end of the story came the cold, harsh light of reality, and what the boy realizes is that the faces of other boys can hide the monsters lurking underneath.

So the boy withdrew again, no longer smiling, no longer living, but hiding behind half-truths and lies. He held his wounds closed with his own small hands and covered the rest up as best he could, and pretended that he was fine. But inside, the boy was bleeding, and no amount of glue could ever stem the flow.

Deep down, he began to lose hope. Hope in the idea of being saved, hope in the desperate belief that he deserved more than this; hope that all of this was a mistake, that this life wasn't his. Hope, however, is like a waking dream, there one minute in brilliant clarity and gone the next, leaving nothing behind but the lingering taste of it in your mouth. All his hopes and dreams fade, and the boy can feel himself slipping away with them.

And then the boy met two other boys.

/

His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Adrenaline was a funny thing. One minute you're flying; every sense on high alert, blood pumping, heart racing and breathing rapid even as your fingers and toes tingle as the blood flows away from your extremities. The next minute, you're crashing. Your limbs become heavy with fatigue, your heart slows in an attempt to find its normal rhythm and the excess adrenaline left in your system causes your hands or feet to shake, twitching and jerking in a strange dance of unrepressed and unwanted anxiety.

His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath, and desperately willed his body to stop shaking. It was a losing battle, and he knew that, but he needed to feel like he had control over something, even if it was simply his own body. The thought, however, made a sound escape from his throat, a mix of bitter pain and disbelief. Because the truth was that Nate had control over nothing in his life, and none more so than his body. It was a harsh reality that he had refused to face, but with blood pouring down his face and bruises on his chest and arms (hips, his mind whispered even as something inside recoiled), he couldn't run from it anymore. He couldn't deny it, couldn't escape it, and his head swims from the combination of dizziness and raw emotions.

His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

With all the strength present in every fiber of his being, he somehow managed to get himself to his feet, and he stumbled towards the kitchen, his mind only on one thing: getting good and drunk. He needed to forget, even if only for a few hours; he could face the wreck that was his life in the morning, when he had the mental fortitude to make a decision about what he was going to do.

Because there was no more hiding, not after this; what had happened tonight had reached a level of brutality that Nate could no longer ignore. And the truth was, even if he wanted to continue keeping silent, it was no longer an option for him. Unless he called in to work for the next few days (something that would only create suspicion instead of detracting from it) he'd be face to face with a group of people that could smell bullshit a mile away in less than 12 hours. He's not stupid enough to believe that any of his past excuses would be good enough to explain the bruises that would be even more apparent in the morning, let alone his mental state. Even now, in the midst of his shattered composure, he had the presence of mind to realize that what he has been through, both tonight and previously, has affected him deeply.

But the thought of facing his team and telling them what happened, what had been happening, made his head ache even more. Hearing the pity and sympathy in their voices and seeing the looks on their faces and written in every line of their bodies was just one of the reasons why he hadn't wanted them to ever find out the truth.

He wasn't a victim.

He was NOT a victim.

God damn it, he wasn't a victim.

He's really, really good at denial.

He poured himself a glass of scotch and downed it in one gulp, not even wincing at the burn of alcohol down his throat, before pouring himself another one, nearly filling the glass entirely. This one took more than one swallow and made his eyes water slightly from the burn but it was worth it. His hands were finally beginning to stop their twitching and he could feel himself becoming slightly calmer as the adrenaline rush, and the aftermath, finally began to ease. Unfortunately, this made the injuries he had more apparent, and the third scotch he poured was an attempt to ignore the aching of his body. He was just about to drink it when a loud pounding on the door made him jump, the glass slipping out of his hands and hitting the floor with a crash, shattering into dozens of little shards.

He froze, panic gripping him as flashes of phantom fingers and rough hands hit him; remembered pain and the metallic taste of fear went through him, making him swallow hard. He reached out and gripped the counter top, closing his eyes as he desperately tried to keep himself grounded, his breathing ragged and harsh in the stillness of the apartment despite his attempts to modulate it. There was a moment of silence which was then broken by another round of banging on his front door, this time accompanied by voices.

"Nate? Nate, are you there?"

"Come on, man, we know you're in there. Let us in."

He blinked rapidly, eyes opening and closing as relief rushed through him. For a moment, the appearance of Sam and Callen made him feel better, a bit safer, but then reality set in. Dread filled him now, suffocating and panicked and all-encompassing at the realization that they were here. They were at his door, demanding to be let in, and he didn't exactly have a good reason not to let them in. Denying them entrance into his apartment without even opening the door would only make them suspicious and even more hell-bent on coming in, two things he was trying to avoid. And if he opened the door, how was he going to explain this? They were professional liars and they were damned good at what they did; there was no way he'd be able to get something past them, particularly with how bad his face must look. He'd caught a glimpse of it in the mirror and the bruising was already pretty spectacular, not to mention that it hurt like a bitch.

He swallowed hard, wishing he hadn't dropped the glass even as he attempted to muster up all of his courage. It was difficult, considering just how shot his nerves were at the moment; the tenuous hold on himself he'd managed to gain had slipped away at the first knock on the door. But he had no other choice; all he truly needed at the moment was his voice so he could convince them he was fine and get them to leave. Without ever having to look at them, or letting them get a good look at him, if possible.

He chuckled silently, mirthlessly. That was far easier said than done.

The knocking (or was it pounding?) had resumed, and even though he couldn't see them through the door, he knew that they were quickly beginning to lose patience. And he really didn't want to have to replace the door after they decided to bust it down; the damage inside was already going to cost him a penny. He swallowed again before speaking towards the door, hoping that they'd be able to hear him over their banging.

"Do you mind stopping your attempts to wake the whole world? I'd rather not have to explain that to my neighbors."

Or deal with either of you at the moment, he added silently. Thankfully, the two men listened and stopped, which was nice considering his head was beginning to pound and he already had a headache. Or was it a concussion?

Sam's voice broke him from his wandering thoughts.

"Nate? Is everything alright?"

No. Not really. In fact, it was pretty far from alright. Only he can't say that without providing further explanation.

"Yeah, Sam, everything's good. Um, what are- why are you here? Did you need something?"

There was an ominous silence and Nate had the feeling that he'd just screwed up royally.

"You called me, Nate. You remember doing that?"

He frowned, giving his head a little shake in confusion. Sam and Callen were here? And he called Callen? Had he called the other man? He didn't remember making any phone calls, but then again, a good part of the night was a blur now that he thought about it; of the parts that he did remember, he wanted nothing more than to forget.

The alcohol wasn't helping his memory recall either.

Callen continued speaking and Nate made an effort to listen, feeling a little lost.

"You didn't really say much, just asked if I could come by." He paused. "Do you mind letting us in? It's kind of awkward talking to you through the door."

Nate ignored him, still racking his brain for any recollection of calling Callen. And then it clicked; a brief snippet of memory coming to mind of feeling for his phone in the dark of the room, his hands fumbling to dial, and an indeterminate amount of time as he waited for the other line to pick up before falling back into the blissful darkness of unconsciousness. His mind cleared from the fog and he wanted to smack himself for making such a stupid mistake, because now he had to try and clean this up.

He realized he'd been silent for too long so he scrambled for something to say.

"Oh, yeah; yeah, that call. I'm sorry, guys, I must've not been clear. I meant in the morning. You know, before work? I, uh…I need a ride. To work."

He held his breath, praying desperately for it to work even as he knew it wouldn't. He was right, and he could almost picture the look on Callen's face.

"No can do, Nate. We're here now so how about letting us in so we can talk?"

Sam joined in, his voice sounding firm and resolute in his determination.

"We aren't leaving. Let us in, or I'll break down the door. Then you can explain that to the neighbors."

He cursed under his breath, knowing that now he didn't have a choice. And a part of him was glad that they were here, glad they'd cared enough not to leave just because he'd tried to make them, and glad that he'd even called in the first place. His rational mind knew that he needed help; he couldn't just lock this incident away and forget about it. He's falling, hard and fast, and he knows that if he wants to stop falling, he needs to let someone catch him.

The problem is that letting anyone close enough to do so requires more strength than he thinks he can muster at the moment. It was why he'd been hoping to deal with it all in the morning, when he'd be better equipped at handling the confrontation that was about to happen. Because now he has no choice-he has to let the two men in and hope that the outcome was something he could live with.

But that didn't mean he was going to make it easy for them, and a resentful, bitter part of him thinks, why should he? This wasn't their business, this wasn't their life-it was his, his life to live, his life to make or break; his to let go of when he wanted to. Despite the part of him that knows this has to end, the part that has accepted that it's time to break and make anew, there's another-bigger-part that simply wants it on his own terms. And right now, with these men and their questions and their anger (rage, his mind shivers), was not it. It wasn't the moment, wasn't the way, wasn't his choice, and he's so utterly tired of it all.

Taking a deep breath, trying to gather his composure and return his heartbeat to a more stable rhythm, he moved to the door and unlocked it before turning away and heading back towards the counter and the open bottle of scotch.

"It's open, Callen, Sam."

After a moment, the knob was turned and he heard them enter the apartment. He didn't turn around, though, not even when he spoke to warn them.

"I dropped a glass so watch out. I haven't cleaned it up yet."

He grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swig.

"So what can I do for you, gentlemen?"

They moved towards him and idly he noted how they moved in unison, every footfall the same and every cadence matched. It was a bit creepy, honestly. One set of footsteps stopped a bit behind him while the other continued forward until they were just next to him. Nate was inwardly thankful that they were still at enough of an angle that they couldn't see his face.

"You tell us. What happened? This place looks like a hurricane blew through."

It was Sam who spoke first and judging from where his voice was coming from, it meant that Callen was the one who was standing next to him while Sam had stayed back. That was interesting.

And then he lost interest when he realized they were waiting for his answer. So he shrugged in an attempt to seem nonchalant.

"I decided to move some furniture around. It got kind of out of hand."

Neither man bought it.

"Really? This late at night?" Callen was skeptical and something in his voice made Nate's hackles rise.

"Yes, Callen. I did." He took another swallow before slamming the bottle back onto the counter, wincing as the quick movement jarred his sore ribs. He closed his eyes again almost immediately, knowing that he was only digging himself deeper. But he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Next to him, Callen shifted, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Sam, a movement he caught out of the corner of his eye.

"Nate, are you drunk?"

At the hint of incredulity and absolute disbelief in the other mans' voice, he couldn't contain the bitter laughter that burst out of him, and he struggled to speak through it.

"Oh, god, I really wish I was."

It's more cynical than wishful and he doesn't know what it is that sets Callen off, his words or his laughter, but it does. He can practically see the moment the other man gets fed up. In a movement almost too quick for him to see, Callen turns and grabs him by the arm, turning him around in a firm but not violent move so that Nate no longer has his back to the two men.

He sees the moment realization hits.

Callen froze, his hand still locked onto Nate's arm while his eyes sweep him, taking in the bruises and cuts and blood; a head-to-toe glance that at any other time would have made Nate feel warm inside. But not now; he knows what the other man is seeing, yet he's too numb inside to feel anything other than resignation. He glances over at Sam and has to fight not to step back at the look of fury that's filled the brown eyes and every line of his body. Sam's hands have clenched into fists, white-knuckled in their intensity, and Nate feels his mouth go dry at the flash of memory that hits him at the sight.

A large fist coming towards him; stars in his vision, blood down his cheek makes his head pound, and he reaches up and pushes Callen's hand off of his arm in one movement. His ears are ringing.

"What the hell happened, Nate?"

The anger in Sam's voice matches the one in his eyes and while Nate knows it's not directed at him, he's had enough anger for tonight. He just wants them to go away, wants to be left alone, so he doesn't answer the other man.

He shrugs and stays silent, not quite meeting either man's eyes. A feeling of emptiness sweeps over him and he almost has to fight back a burning in his eyes, because this really has been the night from hell and there aren't any words to describe it. And this, this is exactly what he had hoped to avoid. How can he admit the truth to these two men? He was ashamed and angry at himself for letting things get this far. He should've seen the warning signs. He snorted to himself. Hell, a fist to the face wasn't a warning sign, it was a screaming siren.

"What did you just say?"

Nate froze, eyes cutting over to Callen and getting caught by the blue orbs of the other man. A feeling of horror began to fill him. Had he said that out loud?

"What signs, Nate?"

He took a step back, away from the two men, and his palms began to sweat even as his breathing picked up. He's never been afraid of them or afraid that they'd hurt him but right now, he's hurt and he's tired and it's just a little too much. Callen's speaking again and Nate has to fight the urge to cover his ears.

"Who did this to you?"

Cover his ears and hide in the corner like he's always done; hide from the monsters, hide from the yelling. Or run; run as far as he can as fast as he can.

"Come on, Nate, talk to me. Talk to us."

Run, run, run to be safe. Except in all his years, he's learned one thing…

"What is it that you should've seen?"

…he can never run far enough.

"Shut up!"

He's breathing hard now, adrenaline racing for the second time this night. He's barely aware that the other men have gone silent, watching him in the way they watch everything (calculating and digging and pushing, pushing until they get pushed back; searching for answers, needing them, because with an answer comes an action and these men live in action), so caught up is he in his anger and pain. It's like a switch has flipped somewhere inside him, and every bit of fear and rage and desperation that had been bottled up was spilling out in a tidal wave of emotion.

"I screwed up! Is that what you want to hear? I screwed up! I knew he was angry, I knew it, but I still pushed! I pushed and I poked and I…I asked…and I just wanted… I just wanted him to talk, you know? To talk to me so that…so that I could help. Because I wanted to know what to do," his voice catches, throat dry and closing with the force of his pain, "what I could do to fix it."

"Nate-,"

"Because I had to have done something, right? I must have messed up or made him angry or… I don't know…I just…," his voice faded out and he looked back up to the other two men, his final statement coming out as a whisper.

"I never should've let it get this far."

He feels inescapably tired; every bone and muscle and joint aching from fatigue and pain. The amount of alcohol he'd consumed had all but faded under the surge of adrenaline, which also hadn't done him any favors. He wavers on his feet as a rush of dizziness swamps him and for a moment, he thinks that the floor is getting close awfully fast. Then he realizes that he's actually sitting down now with two different sets of hands keeping him up against something rather soft. He blinks in confusion before realizing that he's leaning back against Callen's chest, his head resting on the other man's shoulder. Callen has his arm wrapped over Nate's chest to stabilize him, while Sam has a hand resting on his knee, the other dialing his cell phone. He's speaking to the two men before he realizes it.

"I feel dizzy." He frowned. "Sam, did you know that you have a twin?"

Sam and Callen share a glance over his head and a part of him bristles because somehow he knows that they're talking about him. But it's making his head ache trying to think about it, so he closes his eyes in an attempt to make the world stop spinning. A sharp shake makes him open them again, and he tries to focus, seeing Callen's mouth moving.

"Nate, come on, you have to stay awake, alright? Don't go to sleep."

But he's so tired.

A warm hand on his cheek makes his eyes move over and settle on Sam.

"I know you're tired, but you can't fall asleep. The ambulance should be here soon and you can sleep after that, alright? Nate?"

He starts to nod but quickly stops when it makes him nauseous. Nate lets out a groan, causing Sam to move into medic-mode, his training kicking in.

"Alright, talk to me, Nate. What hurts?"

He wants to say everything but knows that won't satisfy the other man.

"Chest. Shoulder. Wrist."

There. That should work. Short and succinct.

"Can you breathe alright?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, that's good. Now, what about your head? Did you hit it?"

That's easy too. "Yes."

"Against what?"

"His fist."

It slips out before he can censor it. He feels Callen tense behind him and sees the look on Sam's face but it's too late to take it back. A part of him doesn't want to, either. There've been too many lies and too many secrets, and he's tired of it all. He can't do this anymore.

There's a moment of silence between all of them and he can feel his eyes slipping closed. Callen notices and jars him back with a sharp "Nate!" but almost immediately, Nate feels himself shutting down again. He tries to fight it because Sam and Callen have asked him to, but he's just too tired. His eyes close even as he hears the words thrown about above him.

"-on, where the hell is that ambulance? Sam…"

"…be here soon, just keep trying to wake him…"

"Nate? Come on, wake up…open your eyes, Nate…"

And even though he tries, fighting is just too hard, and the last thing he hears before darkness closes over him completely are sirens.

/

The boy fell.

Fell like he never had before, drifting like the silence that comes upon gliding wings, like everything that comes to fall, leaving nothing in between. The sky melted into glimmering rivers of red, all burgundy and copper stillness of the calm before a storm. The world was silent, a hushed sort of emptiness that seemed to scream with the makings of what was to come. And it whispered to him, taunted him; warned him of the dangers inherent when the air is silent.

The boy fell.

The gentle lull of nothingness suddenly careened into a maelstrom of noise, all lights and sirens and wails, colors drifting over and around and through him. Pain hit him next, jagged and wretched and biting, clawing at his head and heart, ripping out his lungs with every breath and tossing them away to be scattered in the wind. His head hurts, a sharp spike that seems to reach through his eye sockets, and it is staggering. He wants to grab hold of his head and shake, anything to dispel the agonizing pain, but his arms feel heavy, unable to lift from their position at his sides.

Fear rushes through him, metallic in its intensity, and the boy desperately lashes out only to find that that he cannot move. His arms and legs are trapped, his body is trapped, pinned down and helpless to defend himself. The fear grows, washing over him in a tidal wave and for a moment, he drowns; drowns in the sensation of drowning, drowns while he lies flat on his back, unprotected and exposed, drowns in the cold with his hands and feet tied down. He falls and he drowns, lost in the waves crashing down upon him, and he feels his lungs seize even as he gasps for air that does not come. Darkness clouds his vision and in this, his final moment, the boy looks up with beseeching eyes, pleading for a lifeline to take him from the watery depths.

He is lost, and the boy feels utter despair.

And just when his eyes begin to close, clouded in resignation and the chilling realization that he is alone in the void, hands reach out and grab hold of his own. They clasp tightly, firmly but gently, and in the touch, the boy feels the warmth and comfort that comes from knowing that he is saved. Saved not because of something that he has done, but because somebody has deemed him worthy enough to be saved.

He feels himself lifted, nearly cradled in the arms that belong to the hands that have saved him, and for the first time since he's fallen, he feels safe. He is surrounded by warmth and comfort, sheltered by the arms holding him, and he allows himself to sink into the strength he can feel in them. No longer lost, no longer alone, the boy knows that he has been granted a reprieve, like a dying man in the desert heat who finds a single drink of water. It is salvation and grace and forgiveness; a way for him to breathe without choking on the bitter taste of failure and regret and loss.

And it is this security that allows him to let go, accepting the fate that lies ahead of him and below. Because he is empty and hollow and light, slicing through the air with nary a sound, and in it, he is free. Free in a way he has never truly been; free, in the brief stillness that comes between dying and living, rising and falling, wanting and taking.

Free, if only because he has allowed himself to fall.

The boy fell, and it should've been frightening.

Only it wasn't.

/

He comes awake slowly, senses registering a myriad of noises and smells. The antiseptic and beeping of machines makes him register that he's in a hospital but the reason as to why eludes him. He hears voices nearby, relatively close to him; they are familiar ones, and he tries to determine the owners in an attempt to remember anything. One is low and smooth; no hint of any accent or origins in it, and it's calm without tones of anger, sadness or happiness. The other is deep yet rich; unlike the first voice, this one is choppy with agitation and distress. Both are easily distinguishable as male. He listens harder and manages to separate them into words, a conversation emerging.

"I know you're upset, Sam."

"Upset? Old ladies get upset. Chicks get upset. Navy SEALS get pissed off. I'm pissed off, G."

"I'm getting that."

"How can you be so calm? Did you hear what the doctor said?"

"Yes, I heard him say that Nate-,"

"Had two cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, black eye, ten stitches and a moderate concussion? Oh, and don't forget the fading, half-healed because they're old bruises."

"-was going to be alright."

"Alright? I think he's pretty far from alright, G."

"Sit down."

There was a pause. "What?"

"Sit. Down. Now."

"I don't-,"

"Sam."

The sound of metal squeaking was followed by a deep sigh.

"Listen to me. Nate is going to be fine. He's okay, he's safe, and we're here. Nobody's getting near him that isn't one of the team. And when he wakes up, we'll find out who hurt him and we'll take care of it, alright? Now you need to calm down-,"

"And if I don't want to calm down?"

"-because I think he's had enough anger directed at him, don't you? Unless, of course, you want him to be afraid of you."

"Damn it, G. Just…oh, damn it."

"I know, big guy. I get it."

There's a moment of silence and the peacefulness makes him begin to relax back into the sheets. He's still a bit tired and it's just so comfortable here. For the first time in a while, he feels safe.

Because he recognizes the two men near him, it's Callen and Sam, and while he may not quite remember how or why he got here through the fuzziness in his head, it doesn't really matter. They're here, and he trusts them to protect him and keep him safe.

He'll figure it all out later.

The next time he wakes, there's a warm hand resting on top of his own, fingers wrapped lightly around his. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the sudden influx of light against his retinas; overwhelmed, he closes his eyes again in an attempt to protect them. From next to him, a voice speaks softly.

"Hold on, I'll turn the light down."

He finds himself nodding in both comprehension and gratitude, and hears the soft click of a lamp before a hand comes to rest on his forehead.

"You ready? Go ahead, it should be better now."

Complying, he slowly opens his eyes again. This time, both the muted glow of light and the hand on his forehead helped shield and prevent the pain from earlier. Upon opening them completely, he glances around, taking in the typical white of a hospital room along with the nondescript furniture. Only most hospital rooms don't come equipped with the man sitting at his bedside. Nate has to blink a couple times before realizing that it wasn't a hallucination.

G. Callen, in all his street-wise glory, was sitting rather comfortably in the chair next to him, one hand resting on Nate's forehead and the other still wrapped around his lying on the bed. When Nate's eyes met his, Callen gave a small quirk of his lips accompanied by a tilt of his head.

"Better?"

He wet his lips before speaking, his entire throat feeling a bit dry.

"Yes, much better, thanks."

A cough sent his body into a wracking spasm, and Callen's hands moved to help him sit up before handing him a cup of water from the nearby table. After a few moments, it passed, and Nate leaned back gratefully against the pillows. He groaned when the movement made his head spin and covered his eyes with his own hand in an attempt to make it stop. It didn't help much.

"I have a concussion, don't I?"

"Yeah." The other man paused. "Lucky for you, the alcohol should have pretty much faded from your bloodstream so I gather the docs can now give you the good meds."

Callen pressed the button to call the nurse, informing her that Nate was now awake and in pain; once finished, he sat back in his chair and fixed his eyes on Nate in a piercing stare. He could feel it even through the hand he had over his eyes and groaned inwardly. He just knew he was in so much trouble.

He was right.

"That wasn't very smart, Nate."

Something in the other man's voice caught his attention and he looked over at Callen, dropping his hand from his eyes. There was a carefully controlled expression on his face, but Nate knew better. He knew how to look under the mask and see the tension in his frame, the unhappiness in his eyes, and the anger coating his words. He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how much this was affecting the other man even if he wasn't showing it. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off as Callen continued.

"Nate, what were you thinking, drinking alcohol on top of a concussion? You know better."

It sounds too accusing to his ears and he can't just let it go.

"There're a lot of things I should know better than to do, but clearly that doesn't stop me, does it?"

It's angry and resentful and pained and he can't help but wish he'd just kept his mouth shut. His emotions felt like a wild rollercoaster and a part of him just wanted everything to go away so he could not think about it. Callen's posture softened nearly imperceptibly, his voice losing some of the anger and filling with a bit of remorse. It's more of an apology than he could ever say, and Nate knows it, even though he still can't help but feel like the other man is accusing him of something. He fixes his eyes on the ceiling, hoping Callen will get the hint.

He doesn't.

"You were unconscious, Nate, do you know what that was like? You wouldn't respond to either of us or to the paramedics, and the doctor said that you were lucky we got there when we did."

He's not yelling, but Nate almost wishes he were, because anger is far easier for him to deal with than disappointment. It makes him feel like a chastised little kid, or a puppy that peed on the carpet and got whacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. The image doesn't make him feel any better. So he firmly refused to look at the other man out of spite, childish as it was, and the blossoming frustration in the other man's voice made him feel a perverse sort of satisfaction. It didn't matter if it was his continued silence or avoidance of eye contact that was getting to him; any sort of reaction from Callen was an accomplishment.

"You could have died, are you getting that? And what if you hadn't called me? We would have found you in the morning, probably in a coma or something!"

At this, his anger pitches and he snaps back, relishing the copper tang of it in his mouth. It's been so long, too long, since he's felt any emotion other than apathy and fear.

"So what? It would have solved a lot of my problems, now wouldn't it?"

He catches sight of the other man's face and has to fight not to recoil back at what he sees. Callen's eyes have narrowed, going flat and cold in a way that Nate hasn't ever seen directed at him before. It's the look he reserves for the criminals they catch, the ones that get under his skin in a way that nothing else can and it makes him swallow hard, wanting to take back his words because he'd forgotten, if only for a moment, exactly how dangerous the other man is. Another part of him feels guilty because he doesn't truly want to hurt Callen; he's a convenient target, and it's far easier to lash out instead of facing what he's feeling. But the moment passes, and so does his flash of guilt, and Nate sets his jaw stubbornly because he will not apologize. Not for this. Never for this.

And a deeper part whispers, why shouldn't someone else hurt for a change? He's tired of it always being him.

Callen is speaking again, and the flatness to his voice makes every warning bell in his head go off. While he knows Callen would never hurt him, it's too hard to trust that when he's lying in a hospital bed, utterly helpless and defenseless. It feels far too familiar, and his skin begins to crawl even as he fights the desire to cower into the bed.

"You'd better rethink that statement, Nate, or I'll-,"

"What? You'll what? What exactly are you going to do, Callen? Hit me? Yell at me?"

The fear is gone, vanishing under the implicit threat in the other man's words. Instead, it had set something off inside of Nate, something dark and ugly and festering, and he takes it all in and lets it loose. It is a maelstrom of pent-up aggression and rage, riddled with agony and sorrow and tarnished innocence, and the sour taste of it in his throat makes him feel like a part of him has been torn apart.

"Do you really think that there's anything you can do to me that hasn't already been done?"

The look on the other man's face should have been enough for him to stop, but he can't; now that he's started, everything that's been repressed is coming to the front in a single, bitter tirade. And he is bitter. He may not have truly realized how much until now, but the venom in his own voice is enough to drive the point home.

"What are you even doing here, Callen? Need to quell that white-knight, hero complex you've taken and perfected into a way of life? Or is it because Sam's the one who carries that mantle so much better, and you're feeling inadequate next to him?"

Deep down, Nate wonders who it is he really blames for the situation, himself or everyone else. Or maybe it's just simpler to take it out on the world. He really doesn't know; he barely even has a sense of what he's saying anymore. He barely has a sense of anything but the pain in his body and his heart. Nate shifts slightly, a slightly audible hiss wrenched from his lips as bruised skin comes into contact with the sheets covering him, and he remembers. He remembers every blow to his face, every clenched fist and biting grip around his arms and wrists, and the overpowering sensation of blackness as he lies helpless on the floor of his apartment.

It is this reminder of the reality he is trapped in and of his own mortality that causes him to deliver one final comment.

"I didn't ask you to save me, Callen. I have never asked you to save me."

It's hurtful and biting, vicious in an attempt to provoke either a reaction or a departure and Nate knows it. But he can't stop the words from coming out, and honestly, he doesn't really want to. It was the pure and simple truth regardless of the pain it brought to the already-dark shadows of the other man's eyes, but Nate can't bring himself to apologize for it. Not when both men can hear the honesty ringing in the words.

It doesn't stop the ice from forming in the blue eyes, or the forced calm present in every inch of the shorter man's frame. Callen is well and truly pissed, an extent to which Nate hasn't seen in a very long time. He swallows hard, suddenly aware of the small size of the room and the looming proximity of the other man, as he sees Callen's hands clench tightly around the railing of the bed, knuckles nearly white under the force he's exerting.

The silence is broken by Callen and Nate braces himself in preparation.

"Is that what you think about me? That I'm capable of something like that? You think I'm like the asshole that did this to you?"

"That's enough, Mr. Callen."

Both he and Callen looked over at the doorway, one in surprise and the other in relief, as the undercover agent's tirade is cut off before it could truly begin.

The short but formidable form of Hetty stood just inside the door, a nurse at her side and Sam behind the two women. Nate would have laughed at the sight of the big man looming in the doorway looking small against the presence of a woman half his size but was in too much pain and distress over the confrontation between himself and Callen.

"Yelling is not conducive to a recovering atmosphere, and I daresay that the nurses would not allow any further harm to come to a patient in their care. Calm yourself, Mr. Callen," Hetty's eyes narrowed at the blue-eyed agent, "or I will throw you out myself."

Sufficiently cowed, Callen shut his mouth with an audible clack and took a few steps away from the bed, putting enough distance between himself and the injured man for Hetty to nod in approval. Glad for the respite, Nate closed his eyes and attempted to breathe through the pain in his ribs, reawakened by the words he'd spit out at the other agent. In the silence, he heard the shuffling of shoes against tile and felt the whisper of air across his skin as it shifted with the movements of the rooms' occupants. A door clicked softly shut a few moments later, and when he opened his eyes, Nate was unsurprised to see that Callen had departed with Sam.

He was even less surprised to see Hetty standing nearby, eyeing his medical chart. As he watched, her gaze lifted from the papers to glance him over before returning to their original task. After a few rounds of this, he felt compelled to break the silence.

"So, am I going to live?"

The quelling look told him that Hetty was not amused, and silently, he wondered if it was a bit too soon for humor.

A few more moments passed and Nate shifted his attention back towards the ceiling as Hetty continued her perusal. He was broken out of his wandering thoughts by her voice, pitched low in a combination of sorrow and contemplation.

"Well, this is a right mess you've gotten yourself into, isn't it?"

The statement makes him cringe, and he feels an inexplicable urge to apologize, to her and to Callen and to Sam, hell, the world. So he does.

"I'm sorry."

She sighed. "You have nothing to apologize for, dear boy."

He chuckled darkly.

"Are you sure? Callen sure seemed to think so."

Hetty moved over to the side of his bed and laid her hand on top of his.

"Mr. Callen is just worried about you and, as you well know, he doesn't know how to handle worrying about people. He's not the only one, either. Mr. Hanna could barely sit still on the drive over here, making me rather concerned as to how we were going to get to the hospital in one piece. And I, too, am worried; for you and for the rest of the team."

A pang of fear hit him, and he struggled to raise himself from the bed. "What happened? Is everything alright? What-,"

Her raised hand cut him off, and he shut his mouth as she pushed him back down with surprising strength.

"Everything is copacetic, except for you. I'm worried because my operational psychologist is in the hospital and my team is losing their collective mind because of it."

It took a few moments for her words to filter in, but they did, and he looked at her questioningly, not understanding. Hetty smiled at him gently, even as the sadness tinged her eyes, lending them shadows.

"Did you think that none would react to your admission to the hospital, Nate? Especially considering the condition you were in, not to mention just what it was that got you here in the first place. Oh no, dear one, they had reactions to this state of affairs; reactions that left me with a few holes in the office walls and two wrecked vehicles courtesy of Ms. Blye and Mr. Renko. And I shudder to think of what Mr. Vaile and Mr. Beale have gotten up to; I don't particularly look forward to a another phone call from the director of the NSA about unauthorized hacking ." Hetty mimed a shudder, her head shaking in response to the look on his face. "The man spent nearly three hours last time ranting, going on and on about my inability to keep an eye on my subordinates and not properly restricting their activities."

She leaned forward, speaking in a conspiring tone.

"Of course, the moment I reminded him about the photographs our two intrepid hackers unearthed, I was spared any further diatribe from the man. It is a technique I will have to remember to employ the next time in order to spare my ears."

A faint smile slips across Nate's face before disappearing as quickly as it came. He isn't too sure what he should do with the information and frankly, it's all a bit too much to handle at the moment.

Hetty is studying him again and he forces himself not to squirm under her piercing eyes, ashamed at what she may find in his own. When she speaks, it is with an insightfulness that disturbs him.

"You do so much to protect others, my boy. It bothers me that you never seek to protect yourself."

She looks at him and in it, he sees a world of sorrow and pain; it makes him feel uncomfortable, as if he's looking into the heart of something deeply personal and truly tragic. Like he's catching a glimpse of something he's not meant to see, shown to him only by her permission and with the express purpose of teaching him something. And that brief look, even after everything he's seen in his life, makes him feel incredibly, inescapably young.

He opens his mouth in an attempt to say something but closes it almost immediately. Sometimes, there's nothing to say when faced with the harsh truth of reality and nothing to do but run headlong right into it.

A weathered hand reached up and stroked back his hair and the soothing motion brings back memories of his own mother. It is bittersweet and sour, as every memory of his mother is, and he pushes it back into a corner of his mind, knowing that he is not emotionally equipped to handle it at the moment. Instead, he focuses all of his attention on Hetty as she looked at him, nearly hypnotized by the words she begins to speak.

"I must apologize to you, Nate. I didn't see, not until it was far too late, and in retrospect, I should have. I should have been there for you; I should have been able to help you before it got this far and for that, I am deeply sorry." She paused. "But I made a mistake, and that mistake was to forget. I forgot that the people who spend all of their time keeping an eye on others are the ones who need someone to keep an eye on them. I rely on you, Nate, perhaps even too much."

Hetty sighed, and it echoes the exhaustion lying deep inside of his soul.

"You watch out for the team, most of the time without any instruction or command on my part, and you do it quite well. And that is where I failed you, Nate." Another sigh, and this time, it hurts him to hear it, knowing that this burden on the small woman's shoulders is entirely his fault. But he doesn't speak; he can't speak, because something inside of him wants to agree with everything that she is saying.

Confessing is perhaps a better term for it, as this act has all the hallmarks of a guilt-ridden soul spilling their darkest secrets and most unforgiving sins to someone acting as judge, jury and executioner. He wonders if she is looking for redemption and silently laughs at the thought; Nate has his own sins-he cannot give redemption to someone when he doesn't even have it for himself.

"You carry so much of their burden-Callen's recklessness and Sam's protectiveness, Kensi's aloof nature and Renko's impulsivity, Dom's naivety and Eric's innocence-in order to help them maintain balance. You keep them from becoming overwhelmed in both their work and personal lives even if they hate you for it. And you are there for them whether they wish to acknowledge you or not. I neglected to do the same for you."

She leaned forward even more, her hand stopping its motions and coming to rest on his forehead.

"I apologize, my dear boy. There are not enough words to express how much."

He forces himself to say something, anything, to this woman who has bared so much of herself to him.

"It's okay."

But his words only made the lines on her face deepen and he watched as she shook her head slowly.

"No, Nate. It is not okay."

And the truth is like a physical blow, causing him to flinch and look away from her knowing eyes. It feels like something has been ripped out of him, leaving behind this hollow, angry, shell of a person that isn't entirely sane, and the realization is staggering. He feels tired, too, stuck halfway between waking and not, with one foot in the twilight state and the other dead to the world. Part of him understands that the trauma he has been through combined with his injuries is playing a part in his confusion, but a deeper part wonders if he'll ever truly heal.

Nate turned back to her as she spoke again.

"But I have learned a lesson, a necessary one, and I believe that things will be the better for it."

He chuckled, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob ripped from his throat.

"I think I learned my lesson last night, don't you?"

"Lessons aren't taught with fists, my dear, only fear is."

He blinked back tears, rolling his eyes back up to the ceiling in a defeated sort of tiredness.

"How did I get here, Hetty?"

"The same way we get anywhere, Nate. By stumbling and falling and veering off course. But that doesn't necessarily mean it was the wrong road to take."

Her warm voice wrapped around him like a blanket, filled with security and safety, and it's better than anything he's felt in the past few weeks. The steel undertone was enough that he still paid attention to the message she'd woven into it.

So he stops fighting the exhaustion, letting himself fall into the soothing comfort of sleep, and thinks that perhaps with Hetty at his side, watching over him as promised, the dreams will stay away.

And for the first time in a long time, he feels like things might actually be okay.

/

It's gonna take a long time to love,

It's gonna take a lot to hold on,

It's gonna be a long way to happy.

Left in the pieces that you broke me into,

Torn apart but now I've got to

Keep on rolling like a stone

Cause it's gonna be a long, long way to happy.

-Pink, "Long Way to Happy"

/

End Part 1.

AN: I'd really, really appreciate getting some feedback for this story, so please review. Hopefully I'll be able to get the next part up within a few months but I make no promises.

All lyrics and quotes have been cited but please let me know if I've missed any. Thank you!