Three days on the ship, and Sam's losing his mind.

He admits that a long ocean voyage isn't what he pictured when he took this assignment. He figured a plane flight across the Atlantic, another over the continental US, and he'd drop Callen off like a package. Door-to-door service direct from prison to Los Angeles, courtesy of Sam Hanna, glorified UPS man.

Turns out Vance had other ideas.

The ship makes sense, strategically. If indeed Callen needs to disappear off the radar, this is a better way to get him back to the States unseen and undetected.

It also makes sense to give Callen time to recover from his illness. The new office in Los Angeles is a major undertaking, with a lot of money on the line. Any agent assigned there better be ready to hit the ground running.

So, yeah, everything makes sense. But something about it sticks in his craw.

Part of it is pride, of course. Sam's gone from being a member of the most elite fighting force on the planet to a glorified babysitter. He gave the best years of his life to his country and to the Navy and he can't help feeling kicked to the curb.

He wonders sometimes if Callen feels the same way. To send a man into enemy territory and then strand him there goes against Sam's training as well as his natural instincts. Sure, NCIS sent Callen a rescue eventually, but to be welcomed back with nothing more than a bus ticket home has to sting.

Sam reminds himself again that spies are different from soldiers, and that he needs to start thinking more like a spy and less like a soldier if he's going to succeed in his new environment.

But the truth is, he'd rather face a crazed Afghani warlord then spend another day chasing after his wayward and infuriating charge.

Callen had been visibly furious when Vance informed him of their travel arrangements. He'd been visibly furious when they boarded the ship under cover of darkness. He'd been visibly furious when they'd been assigned their quarters, a tiny cabin with two berths set in the wall. For Sam, it seemed palatial. Callen took one look at the place, hurled his duffel at the wall, and stormed out.

Sam hadn't seen him again for 24 hours. If the ship hadn't already left port, he might have wondered if Callen had gone AWOL.

The next few days were similarly frustrating. Sam quickly learned that the Callen he had rescued and brought to Spain was not the typical Callen.

Rescued Callen stayed in one place and slept constantly. When awoken, he obediently took his antibiotics and painkillers, and then went back to sleep. Rescued Callen didn't speak, let alone argue.

Typical Callen doesn't sleep. Typical Callen doesn't stay in one place longer than twenty minutes.

Typical Callen disappears. Over the past three days, he'd explored the entire ship. If he sleeps at all, it's on his bedroll on deck or in one the many hiding places he discovered.

Typical Callen argues constantly, and when ordered to take his meds — Kyle had wisely entrusted them to Sam — flat out tells Sam to go fuck himself.

Sam puts his hands on his hips. "You have to finish the entire course."

Callen glares at him. "Why?"

"Because if you don't, the bacteria develop resistance to antibiotics. You're putting yourself and everybody else at risk."

Callen squints up at Sam. He's huddled on a threadbare deck chair. Despite the warm sunshine, he's dressed in khakis, boots, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt, and has his arms wrapped around himself like he's freezing cold. His hair, which was shaggy when Sam rescued him, has been shorn close, shorter than a buzz cut. Judging by several nicks and cuts on his scalp, Callen did it himself, and quickly — almost savagely.

"So let me get this straight," Callen says in that smart-ass way of his. "I'm fine, I don't need any medication, but if I don't take it, then the super-bugs will arise and take over the planet? And it will be all my fault?"

Sam sighs in exasperation. "Just take them, okay?" He holds out the pills and a bottle of water.

"Why?" Callen asks again. "So you can report in that I'm a good boy and took my vitamins?"

"I'm not reporting to anyone."

"Like hell," Callen says bitterly. "I've seen you go into the communications room."

"Yeah, I go there so I can email my kids," Sam snaps. "You got a problem with that?"

Callen actually looks abashed. "No."

"Then just take the God-damn meds," Sam orders. "And don't give me some crap about how you're better," he adds as Callen starts a hacking cough, "because if you were, you wouldn't still be doing that."

Callen finishes coughing and glares at Sam through watery eyes, but takes the meds from his hand and chugs them down with the water.

The conversation seems to break some sort of ice, because for the first time that night Callen is in the cabin when Sam retires. Although that could just be because it's raining outside. (Their cabin opens out onto a railed corridor with a roof overhead but nothing on the sides to keep out the wet.)

Either way, Callen's curled up in his berth while Sam does his nightly calisthenics.

"So how'd you get stuck with this crappy assignment?" Callen asks abruptly.

Sam is startled, but keeps doing crunches. "I didn't get stuck with it. I volunteered."

"Sure, you did," Callen drawls. "Just like I volunteered for my last job."

Sam stops his sit-ups and frowns at Callen. "I did volunteer."

"So did I," Callen says mildly. He adopts a deeper tone. "'G, we've got to expose the leak among our assets, and you're the only one who can pull this off. The lives of your co-workers are on the line, not to mention countless innocent civilians. But feel free to say no if you're too chicken to see it through.'"

Callen's voice changes to one more high-pitched, younger-sounding. "'Well, gosh, boss, now that you put it like that, I'd love to volunteer.'" His voice goes back to normal. "The volunteer part is somewhat moot at that point, see what I'm saying?"

It's the most words Callen has spoken since Sam met him.

Sam doesn't want to over-react, so he shrugs and starts doing crunches again. "Point taken."

Callen reaches up and traces the underside of the bunk above him. "But you're a SEAL. So seriously, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off saving the world?"

Sam leans his body to the right and does crunches to the side. "I'm retired."

"I didn't know you guys retired."

"Fucked up my knee parachuting into Afghanistan. It's good enough for field work, but not combat."

Callen stops tracing patterns. "I'm sorry, man."

Sam shrugs and switches sides. "It happens."

Callen watches him for a moment. "I can take the top bunk if—"

"I'm fine," Sam snaps.

"Okay, okay, don't bite my head off."

Sam stops and wipes his face on his T-shirt. "Sorry. It's just—"

"A sore spot. I get it." Callen flops on his back again. "So when you came and got me, that was..."

"My last mission. The other guys were trainees. They needed experience, and it was a pretty routine job. No offense."

"None taken."

"All I ever wanted was to be a SEAL," Sam finds himself saying. "Now that that's over, I don't know what my next move should be. This job came up, so I took it. Figured it would give me some time to get my head together."

"Makes sense," Callen admits. "Jesus, how many of those things do you do, anyway?" he adds as Sam resumes his sit-ups.

"Five hundred," Sam grunts.

"Makes my abs hurt just watching you."

He falls silent. Sam finishes the left side, then stretches to relax the muscles. "So, my turn."

"Your turn what?"

"I get to ask you a question."

There's a long silence. From his vantage point on the floor, Sam can't see Callen. But he can hear the tension in his voice when he answers.

"Fine. Ask away."

"What's the G stand for?" Sam had seen it stenciled on Callen's duffel.

Another long silence. "Nothing."

"Nothing starts with an N," Sam says mildly.

Callen flops over and stares down at Sam. His eyes are like chips of blue ice.

"Are you freaking kidding me?"

"What?" Sam asks. He's suddenly aware that he's lying flat on his back in nothing but shorts and a T-shirt, and that Callen is a trained killer with a very bad temper.

"Don't fuck with me," Callen growls.

"I'm not."

Callen, if anything, looks even more furious. "Yeah, you are. You know the answer — don't pretend you don't."

Sam spreads his hand wide in a conciliatory gesture. "I don't. It was an honest question, swear to God."

Callen looks down at him, eyes narrowed even further. "Liar," he spits out.

He swings out of the bunk and heads for the door. Sam's temper snaps. He's on his feet in a instant, reaching for Callen's arm. "Don't you dare call me a—"

Even as as his fingertips brush fabric, Callen is no longer there. The next thing Sam knows, he's slammed against the wall with one arm pinned behind his back and a gun pointed at his head.

"Sig Sauer P228," Callen breathes in Sam's ear. "Move, and I will pull the trigger."

"Okay, okay," Sam says. "Settle down. We're all good here."

He hears a click.

"Jesus." Sam closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the cool metal of the wall. "Okay, I won't move."

"Don't touch me," Callen whispers. "Don't you ever touch me."

"I won't," Sam says. "I promise. I'm sorry I did that. I didn't mean to startle you." He can feel Callen's body shaking, hear his harsh breathing. "I'm sorry," Sam says again.

He senses the pressure against his skull ease as the barrel of the gun moves back a fraction of an inch.

"I'm going out," Callen says. "Don't try to stop me."

"I won't, I swear."

"I can still shoot you."

"I know."

Sam feels the gun gradually pull away, hears the creak of the metal door, feels a breath of cool damp air on the back of his neck.

He knows it's coming, but he still jumps about a foot when the door slams.

He turns, grabs the handle, and wrenches the door open. But by the time he steps out into the cold, rainy darkness, Callen is gone.