Sam figures he has three options.

Option One: Kill Callen.

Option Two: Have the crew drop Sam off at the next port. There he can phone Vance, tell him to take this job and shove it, and begin a new career as a mall cop.

Option Three: Something that doesn't involve Options One or Two.

He's still trying to figure out Option Three while he processes his own emotions. After Callen disappears into the night like friggin' Batman, it takes Sam six hours to go from white-hot rage to blistering fury, and another six to go from blistering fury to simmering resentment.

From there it's a quick, three-hour trip to genuine concern, and by late afternoon, he finally arrives at full-blown panic.

Sam's no idiot. He knows genuine PTSD when he sees it. And he knows where it can lead.

He searches the ship, as much as he can in the driving rain. He tries not to think about the possibility that Callen may have already ended it with a bullet. He considers raising the general alarm but decides against it. If Callen is still alive, the last thing Sam wants to do is make him feel cornered.

Sam also considers, but decides against, contacting NCIS. He's not sure why he feels so reluctant. Callen already seems to assume that Sam is spying on him and reporting back to Vance. Maybe Sam doesn't want to prove him right. Then again, if Callen is a serious danger to himself or others...

"Son of a bitch," Sam mutters. He stands at the edge of the deck, carefully holding on to the rail, and looks down into the churning waters while he thinks.

Sam figures three things have kept him alive all these years: Teamwork, Training, and Instincts. (Some people might add luck, but Sam doesn't believe in it. If you've got the first three, you don't need luck.) He goes through the list in his mind, bringing each tool to bear on his current dilemma.

Teamwork: Not relevant under the present circumstances. For the first time in his life, Sam doesn't have a team to rely on, and the loss still hurts like a physical injury, like he's missing a limb.

Training: Relevant. His training tells him he's in over his head. When that happens, it's usually due to lack of intel and/or situation-specific training. In this situation, Sam clearly doesn't have all the information or expertise he needs. The smart thing to do would be to contact his superiors — in this case, Vance — and demand to be read in. Then maybe check into an online program and get a degree in clinical psychology.

Instincts: Always relevant. Unfortunately, his instincts are telling him strongly not to contact Vance.

Again, Sam's not sure why. It could be the betrayal thing. Or perhaps he's reluctant to rat Callen out. A lot of guys have managed to overcome PTSD and go back to work. Maybe Callen, like Sam, just needs a chance to get his head together. If Sam pulls the trigger now, he might nix Callen's chances at the new job.

Then again, if he doesn't, Callen might end up dead and he might decide to take some other folks — namely Sam — with him.

And why is he even worrying about the hurt feelings and career prospects of a guy who held a gun to his head? Sam asks himself furiously.

"Idiot," he mutters.

He gives Instinct a hard mental shove, but it refuses to go away. As a matter of fact, it shoves back. Harder.

Sam gives in. In this case, where he lacks proper Teamwork and Training, Instinct wins the day.

And Instinct is telling him to give Callen another shot — only not literally.

Now if he could only find the son of a bitch...

Sam straightens and wipes the rain from his face. His mind is made up. He'll give Callen six more hours. If he hasn't surfaced by then, Sam will alert the crew, contact Vance, and generally throw in the towel.

Satisfied, Sam heads back to the cabin. His plan is to change into dry clothes and then rustle up some coffee. He ducks a particularly nasty spume of spitting spray and slips into the cabin...

...only to find Callen, seated cross-legged on the floor with his back against the far wall. He's got the Sig disassembled and spread out on the floor, and he's cleaning it meticulously, his movements neat and precise.

Sam stops in his tracks and stares at him. Callen glances up and frowns.

"Rain's gettin' in."

Sam realizes he's right, and shuts the door.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Callen shrugs and continues to clean his gun. "Around."

"Around?" Sam is quite pleased that his voice sounds so calm and controlled, when what he really wants to do is bellow. "I thought you were dead."

Callen stops and squints up at him, surprised. "Why?"

"Why?" Now Sam's voice starts to rise. "WHY?"

To his credit, Callen looks abashed. "Oh. That."

"Yes, that," Sam says. "Let's talk about that."

Callen fiddles with his cleaning tools for a moment. "I guess I owe you an apology."

Sam crosses his arms. "You guess?"

Callen actually blushes. "It's just...I thought...I get...I wouldn't have shot you, you know," he says defensively.

"No, I don't know that," Sam snaps. "All I know is some maniac put a freaking P228 to my head and threatened to pull the trigger. Where the hell did you get that thing, anyway?" he adds. "SEALS use those, not civilians. And don't tell me it's what you carry as an agent, 'cause that thing is way too obvious for the field."

Callen grins up at him, cocky again. "I know a guy."

"Jesus." Suddenly, Sam is exhausted. He didn't sleep a wink, and now that relief is setting in, he's starting to feel it. He sits down in the only chair in the room and rubs his head and face with his hands.

When he looks up again, Callen is studying him with curiosity.

"You really were worried," he says.

"Of course I was worried!" Sam hears his voice rise again, but tamps it down and starts over.

"Look," he says, "you're a grown man. As you've pointed out more than once, you don't need a babysitter or a bodyguard. But for some reason, your boss hired me to get you to LA. Do you know what that means?"

Callen stares at him in obvious confusion. "No."

"It means I've got your back," Sam says gently. "It means, for right now, I'm your partner."

Callen frowns. "I don't do partnerships."

"I'm not surprised to hear it," Sam says, "but for the next three weeks, you've got one. That means I watch your back and you watch mine, okay? Now, about last night—"

Callen interrupts. "I wouldn't have shot you."

"I'll take your word for it. What I was going to say was, I shouldn't have startled you like that."

Callen looks down. "I overreacted."

"Yeah, you did," Sam says evenly. "But the way I see it, you just got out of combat. You're entitled to a little combat stress. I've been through it myself," he adds. "When I was on leave from my first tour in Afghanistan, I was sitting at the kitchen table, just eating a bowl of cereal. Normal Saturday morning, the type of thing I'd daydreamed about for a year. My kid slammed the back door, and I about went through the roof."

"Yeah?" Callen goes back to cleaning his gun, but Sam can tell he's listening.

"Yeah. We all get a little jumpy. So why don't we make a deal? I won't sneak up on you, and you don't disappear for days at a time. That way I don't have to worry that you offed yourself."

Callen grins suddenly. "Bet that would look pretty bad on your report to Vance, huh?"

"Okay, that's another thing," Sam says sternly. "I don't know where you got this idea that I'm spying on you, but I'm not."

Callen replaces the clip in the Sig. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious," Sam says.

"Uh-huh." Callen finishes reassembling the gun, sights down the barrel, and nods with satisfaction. Then he offers it to Sam formally, across his wrist. "Your turn."

Mystified, Sam takes the gun, feeling its familiar heft in his palm. "My turn what?"

"Your turn." Callen nods at the pistol, then taps his forehead.

"Hang on a second," Sam says. "You want me to hold a gun to your head?"

"Yeah," Callen says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Why?"

Callen looks up at Sam with the solemnity of an eight-year-old enacting a pinky-swear. "Because then we'll be even."

"Jesus Christ." Sam rubs his eyes with his hands, praying for patience. When he looks up, Callen is looking at him, head cocked in curiosity.

"For the record," Sam says. "I am not going to point a gun at your head."

Callen shrugs like's it's no biggie. "Okay. Do you want a free hit?" he offers. "I won't flinch."

Sam's brain reels. He clenches his fists in frustration. "You have got to be the most fucked-up individual I have ever met," he tells Callen. "What the hell is your problem?"

Callen frowns. "You should know. It's all in my files."

Sam stands. "For the last time—"

He stops, realizing he's waving a loaded Sig Sauer around. "Let's just put this thing away, all right?"

He hands the Sig to Callen, who shrugs, ejects the clip, and stows both in his duffel. Sam sits again and presses his hands together for emphasis.

"Now. For the last time. I did not read any files on you. I am not spying on you. I am not reporting back to NCIS, or Vance, or anyone."

Callen folds his arms, and his face gets that stubborn look.

"Look at me."

Callen reluctantly meets Sam's eyes.

"You want to know what they told me about you?" Sam ticks off the items on his fingers. "American agent. Name: Callen. Handler's name: Gibbs. Currently imprisoned, needs a ride out. That's all I know. As a SEAL, that's all I need to know. Someone's in trouble, I go get them out. That's what I do."

"You're not a SEAL anymore," Callen mutters.

"Once a SEAL, always a SEAL," Sam growls. "Aside from that, nobody told me a damn thing about you."

"What about Vance?" Callen asks suspiciously.

"Nothing," Sam insists. "He knew I needed a job, and for some reason, he thought you needed someone to watch your back. That's why I'm here. That's all I know."

For a second, Callen looks uncertain. Then he pulls his arms tighter around himself. If possible, his face gets even more mulish.

"I don't believe you."

"Fine," Sam snaps. He stands. "It doesn't matter if you believe it or not. It's the truth. Now, I just spent the entire day looking for your skinny white ass. I'm tired, I'm wet, and I want some damn coffee."

He stalks to the door, then pauses, getting his temper under control. He takes a deep breath and turns around. "Can I get you anything? Because, frankly, you look like crap." Now that his emotions are settling down, he notices that Callen looks exhausted, too. His face is unshaven, his eyes are hollow, and he's shivering. He suddenly reminds Sam of the Callen he rescued.

But this Callen won't meet his eyes.

"Have it your way," Sam snaps again. He opens the door.

"Tea."

Sam turns, not sure he heard anything. "What was that?"

Callen looks everywhere but at him. "Cup of tea would be nice."

"Are you hungry?"

Callen frowns, like the question doesn't make any sense. "I could eat," he says finally.

"Then get up off your butt and come with me."

Callen blinks at Sam, then looks at his duffel.

"Fine, bring your damn gun. Just don't shoot anyone on my watch, because I am not in the mood."

Callen puts away a bowl of soup, some bread and several cups of tea. He sits with his hands wrapped around the mug, not speaking. Sam doesn't initiate any conversation, either, just drinks his coffee. If he didn't know better, he might have thought he and Callen had achieved some kind of détente.

That night, Callen is in the lower bunk when Sam returns from the communications room.

"How are the kids?" he asks.

Sam blinks in surprise. "Growing like weeds," he says finally. "They sent a picture of themselves by the kitchen wall. You know," he adds, "where we draw pencil marks to show how tall they are?"

"I guess."

"They've both shot up an inch." Sam holds out the photo, printed on a piece of paper. Callen takes it and studies it. The kids are grinning proudly, each with a ruler balanced on their head.

"That's Trent," Sam says, pointing to the boy. "He's my little man. And that's Tanya, she's my baby girl."

"Cute," Callen says. "Bet she's got you wrapped around her little finger."

Sam snorts. "You know it. She just lost that tooth." He taps the paper at Tanya's gap-toothed grin. "She wants to know how much she's gonna get from the tooth fairy. I told her I'd get in touch with him and we'd negotiate."

"Smart move." Callen hands the paper back. "When are you going to see them?'

"Soon, I hope," Sam says. "Maybe when we get to California, if their mother agrees to bring them out. They live in Ohio," he explains. "Closer to the grandparents who, trust me, do not want to share." He carefully sets the photo aside, then gets undressed.

After a moment, Callen speaks again. "Why—" He breaks off.

Sam looks at him. "Why, what?"

Callen shakes his head. "Never mind. It's none of my business."

"No, go ahead. Ask."

Callen traces invisible patterns on the underside of the bunk. "Why wouldn't their mom want them to see you?"

"We're divorced. Things can get a little hairy between us."

"Oh. Sorry."

Sam shrugs. "It happens. Especially in military families."

He's about to climb into the top bunk when Callen looks at him in surprise. "Aren't you going to do your...?" He waves his hand vaguely at the floor.

"Uh, yeah. I guess." Sam lies down on the floor and starts his sit-ups, arms behind his head first and then folded across his chest.

At about two hundred, Callen speaks again. "Your ex should let your kids see you."

"I'll give you her number," Sam grunts. "You can call and tell her that."

"I'm serious," Callen says. "It's important."

Sam switches to the left side. "She thinks military life is too disruptive for children. She says they do better with consistency. Having me appear and then disappear all the time..." he shrugs. "She just couldn't handle it."

"But didn't she know you were in the Navy when she married you?" Callen sounds indignant.

Sam switches to the right side. "I guess she liked the look of me in my dress whites. And I liked the look of her. Plus, I was young and stupid and wanted a family. And, of course, I thought I was invincible." He shrugs again. "It happens. Some folks like the idea of being a Navy spouse, but find out they can't handle the reality."

"But shouldn't she be thinking about what the kids want and can handle, not what she wants and can handle?" Callen persists.

Sam laughs. "You should have been my divorce attorney." He reaches five hundred and lies down on the floor, stretching his torso muscles. Then he stretches his knee, which is sore from all the climbing around he did today, searching for Callen.

He's tired and suddenly the top bunk seems miles away. The room is dark except for a reading light above the lower bunk, and the ship's rocking motion is gentle and soothing. Sam's eyelids are fluttering closed when Callen speaks again, startling him.

"I don't know what the G stands for."

Sam opens his eyes. "Sorry, what?"

There's a pause, then Callen speaks again. "My first name. I don't know what the G stands for."

Sam holds very still. "Why not?"

"I grew up in the system. My paperwork just said G Callen."

"Oh."

"I bounced around a lot. They said I was tough to place. Either they lost track of what the G stood for, or they never knew. Or maybe they did, but they never told me." Callen's voice is casual, offhand, but Sam can hear the edge in it.

"I see."

"It's all in my files, but I guess if you never read them, you wouldn't know." Callen rolls over and looks down at Sam. "You can call me G. If you want," he adds.

Sam is struck breathless yet again by how blue this man's eyes are. He's also suddenly and sharply aware of how close their bodies are, how they're both prone, how their breathing seems to be in sync. Somehow he manages to speak casually.

"Okay. You can call me Sam."

"Sam." G mouths the word. "Okay." He pulls back suddenly, disappearing from view. "Good night." He turns off the light above his bunk, plunging the cabin into darkness.

Sam climbs into the top bunk, but it takes him a long time to fall asleep.