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Chapter 4: Casework

The first real break in the case came as Callen picked his way half-heartedly through lunch the next day. He hadn't managed to keep down either dinner or much of breakfast, and wasn't looking forward to vomiting this meal, too. He could deal with the blindness—though feeling helpless woke him in a sweat at times—but the dizziness was going to kill him.

He'd carefully brought the conversation around to one of the WWD's favorite subjects; what successful former members of the detachment were doing now. He heard the standard hero stories; Boston Marathon runners with one (or no) legs, sky divers, the lucky few who had gone back to an approximation of their former lives. The conversation then moved on to where the current group was headed next.

"Williamson's the next out of the hospital, right?" Callen prompted. "Where's he headed?"

The group surreptitiously shot glances at one another. "SEALS," guffawed Orangutan, and the group controlled its snickering.

Callen grinned. "What's funny?"

Davies schooled his face to seriousness. "Nothing. It's just...have you seen the guy? Oh, yeah…well. He weighs about 80 pounds. No way that guy gets through SEAL training."

Orangutan stifled a laugh again. "Well, you know, unless they run out of trainees. Gonna need to fill those slots..." he stopped talking as he noticed the faces staring at him, then laughed again.

Ervin attempted to redirect the conversation. "Damned SEALS ain't worth the effort anyways. Think they're better than other people. I bet Williamson goes back to the fleet."

Callen pretended he hadn't gotten the visual 'shut up' cues—not a stretch, since his companions looked to him like blurry smudges of green and brown—and routed the talk to this subject of interest. "I don't know. I knew a good guy who always wanted to be a SEAL. Dude saved my life when I got shot. That guy's a good guy. Like a brother."

"Yeah, but you haven't seen him since you got here right?" Davies asked, suddenly serious.

"No, not since I got here," Callen answered truthfully.

"He's deployed?" Davies prompted.

"No, he's over at Coronado."

Orangutan nodded. "He might be a good guy, but if you haven't seen him since you got here, he's not your brother." He pointed around the table. "We're your brothers. No one else is going to understand..."

"OK," interrupted Davies, "no need to get whiny. He gets it. We all get it. You're just pissed because you like Ross."

Callen pretended mild interest. "What? Does Ross want to be the first female SEAL or something?"

Davis shrugged. "Nah, her ex-fiance is a trainee right now. Dude dumped her when she got hurt. Just stopped talking to her. You know how it goes." He glared at Orangutan, "but they're talking again now. He visits sometimes, too, and Orang's mad 'cause he wants the ex to clear out an make room for him."

NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA

Callen recounted the conversation later that day in a conference call with the team from Nate's office. "He visits her when the training schedule lets him. When's the next training break, Sam?"

"Columbus day—mid month. They work, but get out at a normal time, and can get off post in the evening." Sam made a note to look up the sailor in question, Alfred DeSoto. "How you doing, G? You sound lousy."

"Yeah, but I'm looking fine!" G laughed. "Nate here is a good partner. Doesn't get in the way, doesn't bother me. I might just have to make some changes when this is all over."

"Yeah," grunted Sam, "you do that. Eric, did you check into those medical records Deeks pulled together?"

"Yup." Eric sounded smug. "Individually, the records weren't anything special. With the level of harshness in SEAL training, no one is surprised when a trainee breaks an ankle. But, that nurse's observation that it seems to be a really clumsy class this year? She was right. This class has had 61 percent more accidents than average. 64 percent more than the last class, which had the exact same instructors. Now, that could be a statistical anomaly—they could just be unlucky—but it's more likely that there's something wonky about this particular class."

"Like, they're all doped up on painkillers?" supplied Callen.

"Pain killers, especially narcotics, would definitely affect their coordination," Nate responded. "61 percent is a lot, though. They'd all have to be taking the stuff."

"Sounds like it's time for a thorough inspection of the barracks here." Sam grimaced. "Someone's got a stash, and they're messing with the whole class."

"Don't kill anyone, Big Guy."

Sam grunted and hung up.

Nate clidked the phone off and took a deep breath. "So, howwww you doooinnnng?" he drawled.

"Callen raised a warning hand. "Nate."

Nate pulled himself to his full, not inconsiderable, height. "Callen, don't shut me out. I don't care if you punch me for saying this. Well, OK, I do care. Don't punch me. But we need to talk. You're not fooling anyone. Not even Sam, and he's not even here. You're sure as heck not fooling me. I've never seen you so on edge. What's going on?"

"'Heck?'" Callen grinned. "You say 'heck'? Who says 'heck?'"

"Callen."

Callen sighed. "What the Hell do you want me to say, Nate?" The agen plunked himself into a chair, seeming to deflate. "I hate this case. I hate everything about it."

"Is it the blindness specifically?" Nate probed, "You've been practically shaking since that doctor suggested it. Is it that bad? What do you actually see?"

"What question do you want me to answer first, 'cause there were a bunch of 'em in there and I want to be done with this chat as soon as possible."

"Callen." Nate is slow to anger, but he was angry now. Callen gave in.

"Blurs. I see blurs. Inside, like now, they're pretty descipherable. Like, I can see you moving, and I know you're wearing a grey suit and either a blue or green shirt. Nice, by the way. Out in the halls under the lights, or, worse, outside, it's all one big, bright mess. I can't tell one person from the next, and these guys in uniform—I can't tell them apart from the trees until they move. My depth perception is all wrong, so I keep walking into stuff I think is far away, and I'm so dizzy from the meds that I can't eat." Callen was on a roll now, and Nate sat quietly, knowing G would get around to the problem eventually. "Kensi's a big help while she's here, but at night when you go back to your barracks and she's home it's just me in that damned closet staring at the dark blurs and listening to Davies snore. And I'm hungry!" He ran down.

There was a few seconds' silence before Nate quietly interjected "closet?"

"Huh?"

"You said you spend the nights in a 'damned closet.'"

"My barracks room. The damned this is as small as a closet."

"You said 'closet.' You spend nights in a dark closet. You didn't say room."

"We're done, Nate."

Nate sat back in his desk chair. His team-mate's gates were firmly closed again. They'd talk later.