Disclaimer: I don't own anything. These are someone else's toys that I played with for a bit then put neatly back on the shelf.

This is a multi-chapter story that started out as a little fluff piece but morphed into a longer story when a bad guy muscled his way into the plot line. There are some references to past episodes (no real spoilers) and a few lines that tie back to other stories I wrote (none are a required read but feel free to read later if you are bored). As with most of my stories there is a lot of dialogue (I love exploring characters thru speech), not as much action (looks great in my mind, looks horrid when translated to 1s & 0s) and some humor (well at least I thought it was funny). The mistakes are my own (my dog sucks at proof reading) and I will correct them as I find them (except for fragments which I believe are a necessary evil).

The two agents had been sitting in the sweltering parking lot for more than ten minutes, repetitively rehashing the same discussion and Sam was ready to strangle his stubborn, infuriating partner.

"Do I really have to go in? Can't I wait in the car?" Callen complained for the 99th time while glaring at the huge sporting goods store over the dash of the sleek black Challenger.

"You want me to go in there for you? Alone? And do it?" his partner asked incredulously turning to stare at his trying partner.

"Yep," Callen replied with the utmost sincerity.

Sam wanted to reach out and smack someone, namely his exasperating partner. "That's not gonna happen G. Trust me. Besides, it won't kill you to go in the store."

Callen shrugged in that maddening manner he had when he was making a point, at someone else's expense. "It might. You don't know that for sure."

Sam took a deep calming breath, reminding himself that violence was not the answer. "Look, you need a new pair of running shoes. This," he said waving his well-muscled arm towards the mega-store, "is a great place to buy them."

"Why's that? And for that matter, what's wrong with my sneakers?" the shorter blond parried.

Sam snorted decisively. "Those so called sneakers of yours are dirty, smelly and have more holes than your body!"

"Hey, watch it," Callen warned crossing his arms across his chest, glowering at his partner.

"And," Sam continued studiously ignoring him, "This is a great store because of price and selection. I buy all my sneakers here."

"And that's supposed to convince me?" Callen cocked his head to the side. "Do they carry normal sizes?" he asked in an innocent, yet accusing, tone.

"Are you saying my feet are big?"

"I didn't say that." Callen pursued his lips and gave a little shrug. "I'm just saying…," raising his eye brows to finish his sentence. The two alpha males stared at each other for a few seconds before Callen broke the contest. "What about salespeople?"

"What about them?" Sam asked suspiciously wondering where his partner was going with this line of questioning.

"Do they have them?"

"Yeh."

"Well, that settles it," Callen said firmly, settling back into his car seat. "I'm definitely not going in. Hate salespeople. They hover. I don't like being helped."

"You can't be helped," Sam muttered sarcastically.

Callen turned back towards his partner, quirking an eyebrow. "Was that a dig Sam?"

Sam just smiled sweetly but neither confirmed or denied his comment's intention. Deciding to change tactics he asked, "So where did you buy your last pair of running shoes? I'll bet you don't even know. Probably found them in a dumpster on a raid."

Callen glanced away, momentarily distracted. 'Where did I get these sneakers?' he silently wondered looking down at the items in question. He had no clue. Buying clothes, or anything for that matter, was not his thing. When it came to clothes, he owned the basics, in the required quantities, to last about two weeks. Then after a mass washing, he was good to go again; simple and easy. As for shoes, one pair of sneakers for running, one pair of boots for work and he was a happy camper. Typically, the only time he 'dressed up' was when he was on assignment and then Hetty supplied his outfits. Kind of like a mother or at least what he thought a mother should be like; as an orphan, raised in California's foster care system, the concept of 'mother' was somewhat foreign to him.

Sam settled back in his car seat enjoying the current state of this conversation; he had Callen on the ropes, which was not an easy feat. In a minute he'd go in for the KO, but it was too much fun at the moment to watch his partner struggling to figure out the mystery of his sneakers. He decided to let G sweat it out, especially since Sam knew exactly where and when the sneakers in question had been purchased. Sparring, whether verbal or physical, was all about timing and when the time was right, Sam planned to slam his partner, without mercy, to the mat.

Since Callen couldn't remember where his running shoes had come from he circled back to an earlier position and re-attacked. "Doesn't matter. This store has salespeople. You already admitted that and I hate being waited on and I'm not going in!" he concluded sounding a bit like a petulant child. While he was speaking, he watched Sam's grin grow bigger; if it got any larger, Callen thought, it would split his partners' face. 'Damn,' he silently cursed. His smug partner knew something he didn't and Sam was not sharing…yet. Another silence settled over the car with Sam grinning from ear to ear and Callen warily staring at him.

Finally, Sam pounced. "Ha! I didn't say what the salespeople did. They don't wait on you, they only ring up sales. You will not be helped by anyone and that includes me! You and your sorry ass can go into that store and find sneakers all…by…your…self!"

Never one to be outmaneuvered for long, Callen quickly rebutted, "But, if no one helps me, how am I gonna know what size I need to buy?"

Trying to one-up his partner was like trying to hang on to a slippery eel, possible but not probable. Sam wondered how much trouble he'd get in if he tossed Callen out of the Dodge and 'accidentally' ran him over. Probably be a lot of paperwork and he'd also have to break-in a new partner which was never fun. So he sighed and kept at it. "Hold your nose and look inside those disgusting things you're wearing; size is on the tongue."

Reaching down, G did as directed. "Nope. Sorry. Worn off. Guess this is not gonna work after all," he smirked leaning back in his seat.

"Ha!" Sam said again.

"Really Sam, two 'ha's' in one conversation?" Callen drolly pointed.

"Ha," Sam said again, just for good measure. "First, they have these little metal rulers all over the store that measure your feet so you can figure out yourself what size to buy and," Sam continued holding up a finger to stop his partner from interrupting, "second, Michelle bought your last pair of sneakers as a Xmas gift three years ago. She has an excellent memory and told me your size, which, for those playing along, is a 10, normal width. That is probably the only thing normal about you." Sam's mega-watt smile showed just how pleased he was with himself. "The only reason my wife bought your last pair of sneakers was she didn't want you in our house, around my daughter, in your previous pair. They were almost as revolting as those things on your feet now."

"Does she want to buy me another pair? Say late Christmas, early birthday, 'cause I'm down with that," Callen said eagerly. "These," raising his foot and placing it on the Challenger's dashboard, "have worked out real well."

Sam irritably reached over and swatted the offending object from his pristine instrument panel. "Get that mangy object off my dash. It's bad enough I find your lollipop papers all over my car."

"So you can practice your origami; my wrappers are helping you de-stress," Callen explained reasonably sensing the tide of the conversation reversing in his favor. "So let me get this straight. You're telling me this whole shoe buying expedition is your wife's doing so my sneakers don't deface your house or traumatize your kid?"

"Good try but no. And for the record, my wife has no desire to buy you anything," Sam retorted.

"Then we seem to be at an impasse. Say, I got an idea. Let's have an early lunch. I could go for a Double-Double, fries and maybe one of those Neapolitan shakes only we real fans know about."

"You eat all that and you're gonna need two new pairs of sneakers to run off those extra pounds," Sam said reaching over and slapping G's torso.

"Come on," G cajoled. "I'm starving."

Sam was tired of this game so he threw out his trump card. "Hetty," he said succinctly

This was a surprising twist in the conversation and Callen was taken back. "Hetty?"

"Hetty," Sam said haughtily. "Hetty told me to make you buy new sneakers. Our Boss, like my wife, does not want your crappy shoes in her Ops Center. Now, get out of this car, into that store and buy the damn sneakers or I will drag you from that seat, throw you over my shoulder and carry you into the store." Callen looked like he was going to say something but Sam cut him off. "Don't tempt me. You know I'm more scared of Hetty ripping me a new one than anything you can do to me."

Callen sighed as he opened the car door. "Alright but don't blame me if this leads to some sort of disaster."

"What kind of disaster could happen while buying a pair of shoes?" Sam questioned as the two strolled towards the store. However, in the back of his mind he believed if something could happen it would happen to his trouble-prone partner; misfortune targeted Callen like a heat-seeking missile.

"I don't know, something," Callen replied vaguely before switching gears again. "What if they are used? Like someone already tried them on and left a fungal disease in them?"

"Believe me G. If your feet can survive your current shoes they can survive anything."

"Still, I'm just saying…"

"Shut up and move faster."

Callen shrugged, walked through the automatic doors of the sporting goods store and then came to an abrupt halt causing Sam to nearly bowl him over. Catching his balance, he let out a low whistle as he eyed the rows and rows of racks. "This place is huge!"

"To the left, four aisles over, under the big sign that says 'Men's Running Shoes'. Move it!" Sam said shoving him.

Callen glanced up at his taller friend, noting the no-nonsense look on his face and swiftly decided he'd better comply. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to purchase a new pair of sneakers, he contemplated. His old ones really were kind of gross.

Ambling over to the indicated area, he scanned the stacks upon stacks of shoeboxes which stretched from floor to ceiling with 'samples' on little shelves. "Damn," he cursed. How the hell was he supposed to pick out a pair of sneakers from such a huge selection? He started to sweat and began working on an exit strategy when his phone vibrated and 'Hetty' came up on the screen. Turning a wary eye to his partner, he reluctantly pressed the speaker button. "Hetty?"

"Mr. Callen. Good, you made it into the store."

"How does she know that? You wired?" Callen mouthed to Sam who simply shook his head 'no'.

"Now, I imagine you are a bit overwhelmed by the selection so I took the liberty of doing a little research for you."

"You researched my sneakers?" Callen said, his eyebrows launching themselves upward like a rocket on the way the moon.

"But of course, Mr. Callen. I have researched a lot of clothes and shoes in my position. After all, have I not shod you many times for an Op? You can't do your best undercover work if you are not dressed properly and if your feet aren't comfortable." Callen rolled his eyes as Hetty continued, "Now, you are an over-pronator so you'll want a sneaker that offers motion control. Based on your current pair, we know that New Balance's fits so we'll use that as a starting point. They're also fairly stylish."

"In case you are wondering, that mean my wife has good taste since she bought your last pair," Sam translated. "You have no style."

"Sam," he growled softly.

"So I recommend the New Balance 890 V3," Hetty continued ignoring the subtext. "It is a lightweight shoe, which I think you will enjoy and comes in a few color choices. Personally, I think the purple is very Lady GaGa. The blue could be adventurous, but you'll probably prefer the boring grey. Though," she cautioned, "you should keep in mind that the grey will show the dirt."

Sam started snickering around the word purple and was at a full chortle by dirt. "Wipe that smile off your face Sam or so help me I will," Callen threatened.

"You need to go over one aisle, midway down. The sizes are on the shelf in numerical order," Hetty instructed.

Callen obediently moved in the direction indicated by his Boss with Sam following behind, laughing. "Bet she knows your underwear size and preference too G."

"As do I yours, Mr. Hanna," the Ops mangers voice drifted out of the phone. Now it was Callen's turn to snicker. Arriving at the correct area, the agent quickly scanned the shelves, grabbed a box, color-grey, size-ten, width-normal and turned towards the checkout.

"Not so fast, Mr. Callen. You must try them on to see how they feel," the disembodied voice scolded. "Both of them," she added for good measure.

"Really, Hetty?" he whined.

"Really, Mr. Callen. And I do hope your socks are clean and without holes."

"Not a word Sam," Callen said through clenched teeth. Plopping on the little bench in the center of the aisle, he removed the lid from the box. Digging through the wads of paper, he finally found the sneakers then groaned. "They're not laced up."

"That is how they come from the manufacturer, but it is a good sign since it means you are the first to try them on… no fungus worries," Hetty happily informed him. Callen glanced at Sam as if to say 'how did she hear his earlier remark in the car'?

"No diseases," Sam explained as he watched his partner sit there with the shoe in his lap. "What's a matter G? Never learned how to tie your shoes? Kindergarten skill I think," Sam needled. "Though, I don't picture you as a sandals and Velcro guy like Deeks."

"Tying shoes is one thing. This is lacing. Totally different." Callen stared unhappily at the unlaced sneaker in his lap.

"You can rewire a toaster but not lace a pair of sneakers? Bet you wish the store had salespeople now," Sam mocked. "Do you know, in a store where they help you, the salespeople pre-lace the shoes?"

Callen shoved the offending object back in the box and rapidly stood up. "I changed my mind. Let's go to one of those stores."

Sam reached over and slammed his partner back down on the bench. "Sit down, shut up, and give me one of those damn sneakers. I'll lace it up," he commanded ripping the sneaker from Callen's hand. "Geesh, you are worse than my daughter."

"You know," Callen noted watching Sam expertly lace the shoe, "that is like the third shut up of this trip. My feelings are hurt."

"You have no feelings. Here," Sam said thrusting the now laced sneaker back at his partner and grabbing the other one. "Put that on. Do I need to tell you which foot?"

"And take the paper out of the toe," Hetty added. The men had temporarily forgotten their fearless leader was still on the phone.

"Why is there paper in the… oh never mind," Callen remarked doing as he was instructed before shoving his foot into the right shoe. Sam handed him the left and he quickly donned that too.

"Now walk around a bit," Sam demanded.

"Why should I walk around if they are running shoes?" Callen quipped.

"G," he snarled and Callen humored him by walking up and down the aisle several times.

"How do they feel?" Hetty's voice inquired.

"They feel like running shoes."

"No pinching? Arch hit you in the right place? Plenty of toe room?"

"What if I say they don't feel good?" Callen asked out of curiosity.

"Then, Mr. Callen, we try on another pair and another until we find just the right one."

"Like Goldilocks and the Three Bears," Sam added. "Though this fairy tale may not have a happy ending."

Callen threw Sam a dirty look, who grinned, clearly pleased his last witty remark.

Callen sighed. At this point he figured he had two options; say the sneakers did not feel right and spend the next two hours being forced by his over-sized partner and little ninja cohort to try on every sneaker in the store. Or he could say these felt good and hopefully be allowed to leave. Looking down at the grey sneakers he decided nothing hurt, pinched or otherwise bothered him. These would do as well as any. "They feel great Hetty. I love them. Don't know how I lived so long without them," he informed her only slightly attempting to keep his sarcasm at bay.

"And a bed, and chairs, and a table, and…" Sam tacked on.

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm Mr. Callen?" Hetty's voice inquired

"Absolutely not," Callen lied. "That was all Sam."

"Hmmmm. If you are sure…"

"Very!"

"…then I had Mr. Beale forward a $10-dollar-off coupon to your phone."

"Really Hetty?" Callen groaned.

"There is nothing wrong with saving money. Perhaps someday you will want to furnish your house."

Part of being a good operative was to know when to retreat and now was a very good moment. "On my way to the checkout, with the sneakers and the coupon," he reported. "Your faithful watchdog Sam is trailing behind and can attest to my actions. Not," he added under his breath, "that you probably aren't watching in real time thanks to the magic of Eric and Nell."

"I heard that Mr. Callen."

"As I knew you would Hetty," he replied. "I'm in line, at the checkout, can I hang up now Boss?"

"While you are in the store, do you need any socks? Perhaps shorts or sweatpants? They are having a wonderful sale on…"

"Hetty!"

As a good manager, it was her job to know when her agents were stressed and need to be removed from a situation. She deemed Mr. Callen, who could handle being surrounded by thugs, out-manned, out-gunned and still remain cool, was on the verge of losing it over the purchase of a simple pair of sneakers. Deciding the main mission had been completed; she would cut her losses and return her agents to the fold. After all, she did know his pants, shirt, socks and yes underwear size so she could always take care of those items herself, if need be. "Yes Mr. Callen, I think we are done."

"Hooyah," responded Sam with the traditional Navy SEAL battle cry.

"Hanging up now Hetty," Callen said as he shot Sam his 100th dirty look of the shopping trip. Being somewhat pre-occupied, he missed the fleeting look of surprise and recognition by a man standing near the exit.

"Can we please go and get something to eat? This has been very stressful and I need sustenance to recover," Callen begged Sam as he handed his credit card and showed the coupon on his phone to the salesclerk.

"Sure, I know a nice organic café just around the corner."

"No way," Callen replied signing the receipt and accepting the bag. "I've been good. I deserve a treat."

"You categorize your behavior on this trip as good?" Sam questioned as they headed through the door.

"We accomplished the mission," he answered holding the bag aloft and giving it a little shake. "No one got injured, so yeah, I'd say it was good."

"You're impossible G."

"And you love me for it," Callen answered tilting his head to the left and grinning. Sam gave him a good-natured swat on the arm as they headed for the Challenger. "So In and Out it is," Callen concluded.

The two men kept up their friendly bickering all the way to the car, neither noticing the nearby customer, the one who had been observing them, had stepped out the door and was watching them drive away.