Saalam-Namaste, Hello, Ladies and Gentlemen! We all owe my wonderful beta (and newly published NCIS:LA fanfiction author) Melbelle310 all the applause and thanks possible. So please go read her new stories! She single-handedly saved this chapter! I loathed it. As the new year is fast approaching I wish you all happiness, health, safety, and much love.

Now, as some readers my be aware I've been writing this beast for two years and eight days as of today! So much was written BEFORE all the canon shake-ups: Ziva leaving, McGee's annoying girlfriend, and Densi's big (cough) event. Now, my poor little story is officially AU! I HATE that I wrote out Mike Renko to keep in canon but, that's how it goes in the big leagues! I will update my summery and be prepare for me to get a little wild and crazy now!

Callen had to admit that when Hetty wanted to go all out with a safe house, she went for the biggest bang possible. They pulled up to the most secure and exclusive gated community in Malibu. He stopped at the gate, rolled down the window, and gave the name and address Hetty had written down for him to a burly, middle-aged man with an easy smile. The security guard took the address and signaled the gate to be opened. "Welcome, Mr. Michaels. We've been expecting you."

"Thanks."

"If there's anything we can do for you, just let us know. I hope you and your family enjoy the neighborhood, but rumor has it that some people are filming one of those moronic reality shows two houses down from you," the older man snarled with contempt.

Callen let a smirk break out on his face. Hetty's covers always leaned toward the dramatic. He wondered what Gibbs would say when he found out that his team was now reality TV's newest sensations. "Well it just proves that notoriety is getting more powerful than money. It's sad, but I paid well for this little slice of heaven, and a bunch of fame seekers isn't going to stop me from enjoying it."

The guard tipped his hat. "It sure is a nice place you've gotten, Mr. Michaels. Have a good evening."

Callen gave a jaunty wave and pulled away. Through the rear-view mirror, he watched Tatyana relax as they drove on well-lit streets with the lights in the mansions surrounding them. Gibbs' eyes, filled with disapproval met his. "Was it a good idea to let that security guard get such a good look at us?"

G. chuckled. "Careful, Jethro, I'm the king of paranoia in this branch of NCIS. That 'security guard' was Special Agent Jacob Cooper. Jake and his team are infesting this neighborhood as back up for our teams. It's probably his last op. He's retiring in a month. Great guy; he's got a lovely wife and eight kids, but after the tenth bullet Shelia said enough. He's got his pension and all his benefits now. He can afford to retire. Sam's planning a huge bash as a farewell party."

Tatyana face broke out into the first true smile since her encounter with Nicolai. "Good heavens! How did he manage to have eight children and a career in covert operations?"

G. shrugged. "Ten bullets over the years equals lots of recovery time."

Tatyana blushed at the implication. "I suppose it does."

Gibbs chuckled. A wide smile stretched his lips, making the creases around his eyes stand out. "Being undercover and in constant danger is an aphrodisiac for some people."

Callen grinned. "You would know, Gunny. Ah Serbia... good times," he sighed, winking at the older man through the mirror.

Tatyana wondered why Jethro didn't 'head-slap' Callen. He most certainly would've done so to a member of his own team for that remark. The car pulled into the driveway of a massive glass and steel mansion right on the beach. Callen got out and slowly walked around the car to open her door. She knew she had to wait before she stepped out, and so she listened while he spoke into his com-link. "Thanks, Jake. Tell Ronny that if he even thinks about playing peeping Tom I'll gut him." A chill ran through her at the harshness in his voice when he voiced the threat.

Gibbs got out and slammed his door. "Problem?"

"Nope, just a friendly warning to the neighborhood pervert. Seriously, he's harmless, just never got out of puberty. Jake won't let Ronny get out of line. He's got a set of sixteen-year-old twin daughters, so he knows what to do with the Ronny's of this world. I just want the guy to remember what it's like to deal with me. Let's just say Kensi didn't leave me much to work with, but I made an impression."

Tatyana cleared her throat. "Excuse me, gentleman. May I please get out of this car? I'm very close to going stark raving mad."

Callen held the door for her. "Here we are. This is home sweet home for now."

She looked at the massive four story modern mansion and grimaced. "Oh, this is an ugly house. I know Hetty has better taste than this!" she exclaimed in disgust.

Gibbs eyebrow quirked, and he led her into the house. "It's all glass, I wouldn't have picked it as a safe house, but it should be good for your claustrophobia."

Callen armed the security system and turned on the lights. "According to Hetty, the house is built to withstand just about anything. You know earthquakes are a problem here, so the designers used an advanced super-glass. The molecules are aligned in such a way that it moves with the frame of the house, and apparently not many bullets will get through."

Gibbs frowned. "It only takes one."

"That's why Hetty leaked that the house where your team is staying is filming a new reality show," Callen chirped, rolling his eyes at the hilarious look of revulsion that crossed the older man's face. "Only an idiot would try anything with the possibility of being filmed, and according to Miss Romanskia, Brazanlov is everything but stupid."

"No, he most certainly isn't," she whispered. "You had better call me Tatyana, Mr. Callen. Since we are going to be living together, it's utterly ridiculous to be so formal."

"Now that you mention it, it's very distracting when you call me Mr. Callen. Only Hetty calls me that on a regular basis. Why don't you drop the Mr.?"

"I'd be honored." It wasn't an invitation to call him G. but she never expected that to happen, and she appreciated the importance of the gesture.

G. smiled. Even her informality felt formal, just like Hetty's. Then, he heard Jake's voice coming through his earpiece. "Got it, Jake, thanks." He turned to Gibbs. "Your guys and Hetty just got here. According to DiNozzo, moving the trunks is gonna take all of us, but they're stopping at their place first."

Tatyana looked down at the floor, embarrassed. She did not want Jethro and Callen to think of her as high maintenance or spoiled and soft. She'd planned on staying with Hetty, who would think nothing of her choices. "I really have no idea how long I will be here, and I have a tendency to plan for any emergency. I hope this isn't too inconvenient."

Callen shrugged her concerns off. "Hey, that's perfectly reasonable. Go and pick out your bedroom. There are five of them: one on this main floor, three on the third floor, and one on the top floor."

Tatyana's eyes moved around the open floor plan of the great-room, and she felt a chill run through her in the cold surroundings. The entire house consisted of white marble, stainless steel, and glass, even in the interior. She wouldn't entertain the foolish hope that the bedrooms would feel any more welcoming. However, all the daylight would provide a good environment for avoiding the panic attacks that came from her fear of the dark, and the sweeping views would stave off attacks of claustrophobia. "I'll be back soon." She slowly ascended the main staircase with her high heels barely making a sound against the marble steps.

Once she moved out of sight, Callen turned to his old friend. "Okay, here's what I know: she was captured by a very nasty group of Chechnyans, she discovered their leader is here, and she needs our help. She's got some crazy memory thing, she's claustrophobic, and she hates the dark. Now what can you tell me?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Her father was CIA, her mother's family is GCCS, and her paternal grandfather was in the upper levels of the KGB. She's got some training in self-defense, no field experience, but that didn't stop her from taking down a six-foot-two, one-hundred fifty-five pound Chechnyan terrorist with a hat pin. She's not nearly as fragile as she appears right now. She's just a bit overwhelmed. In the morning, she'll be fine."

"You don't think she'll fall apart?"

"Nope."

Callen stared at the top of the stairs. "It's up to us to keep it that way," he murmured.

"Yep."

"I gotta get something from the car, I'll be right back."

After Callen walked out, Gibbs assessed the ground floor of the home he would live in for the foreseeable future. He hated open floor plans due to the lack of cover if the bad guys ever broke in. He took some comfort in knowing that the location of the house and their backup lowered that risk considerably. He cringed at the mess of paintings, hung on what looked like steel wire to keep them off the glass. The previous owners had apparently preferred modern stuff that looked like people just dumped the paint on the canvas, or decided to do shapes. The sculpture pieces made him queasy, but he could never be considered a so-called 'fine arts' man anyway. None of the furniture in the living room looked comfortable. The couches and chairs sat low to the ground, barely cushioned and covered in black leather. The few tables scattered around on fake zebra skin rugs were metal and glass. He didn't see any lamps, just recessed lighting for general needs and track lighting for highlighting the art. Overall, the living room was not the sort of place a person could do any living, even with the weird freestanding fireplace at the center of the room. Gibbs rolled his eyes when he discovered it ran on electricity.

The living room flowed off into the dining room on the eastern wall, but without a formal separation to make it an actual room, he supposed the technical term would be a dining space. In the center of the space stood a glass table large enough to seat twenty, and the chairs appeared to be made out of some sort of plastic. The furniture rested on yet another fake zebra rug. A very weird spiky chrome chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a black granite sideboard had been built into to the only plaster wall in the room that must connect to the kitchen.

The massive space was set up like a kitchen in a five star restaurant with one glaring exception: everything—floor, cabinets, backsplash, counters—was white. The appliances and the cabinet hardware were all clad in stainless steel. They provided the only contrast in an endless sea of pristine white. The whole space might have resembled the padded room in a mental ward were it not for the walls of glass. They displayed breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean, and a fabulous teak deck. He flipped on the lights to illuminate the outside and let out a long whistle of appreciation. While the interior of the house might end up driving them all crazy, the outdoor living space promised salvation. It held full outdoor gourmet kitchen, bar, and dining space, along with a lounging area with a huge flat screen and sound system. A luxurious hot tub that accommodated at least twenty people stood ready to use, and finally, a massive fire pit placed in the center of the deck would keep the chill at bay.

"Gibbs, where did you go?" Callen called.

"Kitchen."

Callen came into the kitchen holding his aluminum briefcase. "What's the verdict?"

"I agree with Tatyana. This house is terrible, but the deck is safe."

"Did she come down yet?"

"Nope, she's probably using the head." Gibbs nodded his head at the briefcase. "What's that?"

"The life and times of one Miss Tatyana Levovna Romanskia. She said it might help me trust her, if she gave me her life story."

"Smart girl."

The two men heard the door open and immediately drew their weapons. "Boss!" DiNozzo called out. "Don't shoot, McGee and I are bringing in the trunks, and Ziva refuses to help."

"Do not be ridiculous, Tony!" Ziva exclaimed, as she helped McGee pull the final trunk through the foyer. "These trunks are on wheels, and I have pulled one up to the steps and into the house. Do you honestly think that I can carry a fully packed steamer trunk up three flights by myself? I am good, Tony, but not that good. To be so strong, I would have to be like those fake Italian shore men, how do you say... ah yes a juice head."

Tony grunted as he and McGee set the first trunk down. "Hey, that's an idea. How about we call your old flame Werth? He could drag these trunks no problem."

"He is not taking those steroids anymore, Tony!" she hissed. "Besides, I have just received an invitation to his wedding. It is early in the spring."

McGee smiled. "Really! Good for him! Let me know when, and I'll send a gift."

"So, The Incredible Hulk found a mate. I hope she never makes him angry. Then again, maybe she's a body builder and can hold her own. Do you need a date, or are you going stag?"

Ziva smiled and moved very close to Tony. She affectionately ran her hand from his shoulder to his hand and then immediately pressed down on the pressure point between his thumb and forefinger with the familiar 'thumb tap.' "Ahhhhhh let me go!" Tony yelled as he dropped to the floor.

Ziva leaned in very close to his ear. "If I were you, I would make sure that you do not make me angry, Tony. Damon is a good man, and extremely gentle with those he loves. I have no doubt that he treats his fiancée with the utmost tenderness and respect. Finally, if I can attend the wedding, and if I needed a date, you would not be whom I would choose! You have never treated him with any kindness. I would not inflict you on the happiest day of his life."

"Okay I'm sorry! Now let me up, you vicious, Ninja!"

Ziva relented, and Tony slowly rose to his feet. Gibbs rolled his eyes watching the antics of his team. Callen kept his face neutral. He had never seen this Ziva, and he couldn't get a good read on DiNozzo. He decided he should re-direct everyone's attention to the here and now. "Ziva, where are Abby and Hetty? I thought you drove with them."

"They should be here in a moment, Kell- I mean, Callen," she felt a hot blush bloom on her cheeks. "I'm sorry. Your name will take some getting used to. Abby decided that she couldn't go off Caf-Pow now that we have a case, so we stopped at a gas station and bought an ample supply. They're just putting it away so that it gets chilled."

Then the gentle voice of the woman they'd gathered to protect came floating from the stairwell. "Jethro, Callen, is everything all right down there?"

Gibbs looked up but couldn't see her from his position. Again, he found himself impressed that she'd managed to conceal herself, not an easy feat in a glass house. "Yep."

The group waited through a noticeable pause and then she answered in Romanian. "I heard a man yell as if he was in pain."

Gibbs and Callen exchanged a glance. The fact that she didn't automatically assume everything was safe once she heard Gibbs' voice impressed the younger man. Her choice of using Romanian (the only language both he and Hetty were fluent in out of the group) told him a great deal about how she had been trained to protect herself. He also recognized it as a gesture of good faith to him, one he felt he should return, so he trotted up the stairs to meet her. At 2030, the sky had already turned an inky black that threw even a hall of glass and steel into deep shadows. Fortunately, he had excellent night vision, and could easily make out her silhouette in a corner. He knew not to get too close. Being forced to put herself into a dark corner would turn her defenses on high. Considering what she'd already proved herself capable of doing when threatened, he didn't want to aggravate the situation. "It's alright to come down. What you heard was Ziva taking exception to something DiNozzo said."

Tatyana let out a huge, audible breath and stepped forward. In her hand, she held a wicked-looking, three-inch curved switchblade. A type he'd never seen before. "I thought it was, but I wasn't about to risk being wrong, foolish, and dead. I just wish I hadn't packed my gun in my trunk," she quickly sheathed her blade and slipped it behind her belt buckle.

Callen stood on the last step before the landing and held out his hand to her. "Something tells me that you're not a person who tolerates being 'wrong' or 'foolish,' and no healthy person wants to be dead."

Tatyana stared at his offered hand a moment longer than strictly necessary. With everything Brazanlov and his men had done to her- physically, mentally, and emotionally- the pain of transferring her captors' actions onto other men had never become a problem. For whatever reason, her mind accepted that the physical abuse she'd endured had nothing to do with her body. They wanted her under their power, and they had failed miserably. Because of that, she had no major problems interacting with men. However, Callen initiating even this benign physical contact surprised her. She could see that he didn't care for being tactile. At this point, she couldn't think of any reason he would feel the need to offer comfort, if that's what he wanted to do. Despite the questions buzzing around her brain, she remembered her mother always saying to her, 'When in doubt, be gracious, Princess.' That advice became her unofficial motto in life, and it had served her well.

"Thank you, Callen," she sighed, gently taking his warm hand in hers.

G. hadn't noticed the strength in her hands when they first met. He'd gotten tunnel vision by the thought of Hetty being targeted by a sniper. Now, he took a moment to study them. They were as delicate as the features of her face. Her fingers were exceptionally long and almost perfectly straight. The contrast between the light gold of his skin and the paleness of hers struck him even in the dim light coming from below. He briefly wondered how she could be so pale without being anemic. As her palms slid over his the softness of her skin took him by surprise. He had expected some slight calluses from typing. The dichotomy of delicate softness, and firm strength intrigued him. He took the first step down and waited for her to follow. "I think I hear Hetty."

She took a step forward, one step above him. "We both know that it's best not to keep Hetty waiting. I hope that there is also some food here. I'm very hungry."

His lips quirked into a crooked grin. "We should fix that. Do you like In 'N Out burgers?"

The corners of her lips turned down, and her eyebrows scrunched together. "We don't have those in Europe, but they sound dreadful."

"You shouldn't judge it until you try it," he chided gently. "I'll make sure we get some."

Hetty's voice floated up to them. "Mr. Callen, Tanechka, is something wrong?"

His eyes widened, and she stifled a giggle so that she could answer. "No, dearest! Callen was just telling me about American cuisine. We're coming down."

"You've just landed me in some serious trouble, Tatyana," he whispered in Russian.

A tiny smile touched her lips as she answered in the same language. "Oh she's harmless!"

The expression on Callen's face clearly conveyed that he thought her remark bordered on insanity. "Harmless is the very last word I'd use to describe Hetty."

Hetty stood at the bottom of the staircase, listening to the pair whisper like naughty children hiding from a scolding parent, and smiled. "Tanechka, stop gossiping with Mr. Callen and come get your supper," she called, her voice thick with amusement.

Callen backed down the steps slowly, and Tatyana followed with her hands still in his. When she saw that he would miss a step, she gently squeezed his hands for attention. "Be careful, or else we'll both go down," she warned, switching to English.

He stared at their entwined hands, stunned that he hadn't even realized that he'd never let go. It dawned on him that she trusted him to support her, but it unnerved him that he had put himself in a position where he trusted her to be his guide. A flash of anger at his own carelessness heated his blood, but he reminded himself that she needed him to trust her. He just didn't like the idea of it being easy.

Tatyana stood, waiting for him to decide whether or not to keep going backwards. As she watched the battle between his instincts and his reason rage in his eyes, she knew she could not and should not attempt to push him into trusting her. He had to make his choice himself and build that trust at his own pace. She would, however, remind him that they couldn't stand there all night. "I am very hungry, Callen, and we do not want Hetty to come up here and fetch us."

Slowly, his eyes became calm again, and he gave her a tiny smirk. "I usually have better manners than to keep a lady waiting."

She arched a wary eyebrow at him. "You're keeping four ladies waiting right now, and no doubt our food is getting cold."

Callen bowed his head, suitably chastised, and then he let go of her hands, stepping up next to her. "May I escort you to dinner, Miss?" he said while offering her his arm.

She smiled at his old world formality. "You may indeed, sir."

She received his unspoken message as if his mind had whispered it to hers. He wouldn't trust blindly, but would willingly move in the same direction. The two of them walked together, linked arm in arm, toward their common destination, each of them privately thinking that they had made a good start.