Sam's a cautious man, always has been. He takes risks, sure, but they're calculated risks, with a high probability of success.

He's never been a shoot-first-ask-questions-later/leap-before-you-look kind of guy.

He approaches relationships, sexual and otherwise, in the same way. Consequently, he's rarely the one who initiates things.

Okay, to be honest, Sam's never really had to initiate things. With Olivia, she set eyes on him in the high school gym when they were both 14 and immediately told her friends he was the boy she was going to marry. With guys, all Sam has to do if he wants to get laid is walk into a bar. Within minutes, he's got more offers than he can handle.

Sam's never pursued a relationship within the military. Not because there aren't guys like him, because there are, policy notwithstanding. And not because he's ashamed of who he is. Sam just doesn't like muddying the waters. He prefers to keep his work life separate from his private life. That way, there's less mess, and virtually no drama.

G is all mess, nothing but drama. He's trouble with a capital T, and the more time Sam spends with him, the more he wants him. More than he's wanted another man in his life, and Sam's done a lot of wanting over the years.

Sleeping with G every night - without actually sleeping with him - is sheer torture. Long after G falls asleep in his arms, Sam lies awake, trying to ignore the urgent signals his body is sending him.

He makes a list in his mind, all the reasons why coming on to G would be a bad idea. First, there's the whole bodyguard/working together/muddying the waters angle. Secondly, G's getting better every day, but he's still weak and ill, not to mention vulnerable and PTSD-ed all to hell. G trusts Sam, a trust Sam knows he doesn't give lightly. If Sam says (casually), "Hey, baby, I'd like to throw you against a wall and fuck your brains out," G might feel Sam's violating that trust. Or worse yet, feel obligated to sleep with him.

Hell, maybe G isn't interested in Sam that way. Sure, they sleep together at night, but maybe G's just so fucked up, so desperate for human contact, that he'd do anything with anybody. Maybe he'd cuddle the cook if it would help. Maybe Sam is just any port in a storm.

"Stop it," Sam tells himself as he broods in the galley. Of course G's interested. He may be messed up, but he wouldn't seek out Sam's touch like he does if he didn't feel anything for him. Sam just has to let him know that he's interested, too. No pressure, but if G's ready to take it to the next level, then so is he.

But that means making the first move.

"Dammit," Sam mutters into his coffee cup. A sailor at a nearby table glances up, and Sam glares at him until he looks away.

Sam knows he's overthinking this. But he can't seem to stop, can't seem to take action. To make matters worse, time is running out. There's only a few days left on the voyage, which means if Sam doesn't get his shit together, G is going to slip through his fingers. Sam has no doubt that, once they're on land again and G goes back to work, he'll bolt from the very idea of a relationship like a scared rabbit.

So it's now or never.

"No pressure," Sam grouses, earning another glance from the sailor. This time, Sam's glare is so ferocious that the kid scuttles away without finishing his meal.

Fortunately for both of them, G is a shoot-first-ask-questions-later/leap-before-you-look kind of guy.

That night, when he guides Sam's hand down his body, he makes it quite clear that not only is he interested in pursuing a sexual relationship, he's extremely interested. And when he grinds that pretty ass against Sam's cock, well, thinking time's over. Sam's brain short-circuits so fast he can practically hear the sparks fizzing and popping. Then G turns in his arms and they kiss and, holy shit, it's even better than Sam imagined.

Usually, Sam likes to take his time in bed. He's a physical guy, and he enjoys sex, enjoys drawing it out as long as possible, enjoys pleasing his partner. When he'd allowed himself to fantasize about G, the fantasies were of a long slow delicious meal where Sam savored G, devouring him one delicate bite at a time.

But right now, Sam's only thought is, "Later." Later he'll take his time, draw things out, explore G's lithe, strong body and find a million ways to please him. Right now, though, it's not gonna happen.

Right now, and not for the first time, Sam thinks of G as a wild animal. A wild animal caught beneath him, writhing and bucking, and if Sam doesn't claim him this instant and for good, he'll get away.

Fortunately, G seem to be in the same mood, because now he's face down on the bunk, shoving his hips back against Sam in a clear invitation to fuck him like there's no tomorrow.

Something snaps, and Sam loses what's left of his control. He growls, deep in his throat, then rips at G's clothes, his hands as clumsy and unskilled as a teenager's. So much for Sam Hanna's legendary finesse.

G doesn't seem to mind. He cries out at Sam's rough touch, and Sam shushes him. It's habit, of course, from a hundred furtive encounters, and like he said earlier, it's not that Sam's ashamed of who he is, it's just they're on a crowded ship, for crying out loud, and if someone hears them and, worse yet, interrupts, then Sam will have to SHOOT THAT PERSON IN THE FACE, because if he doesn't get inside G in the next thirty seconds, his body will freaking explode.

G's naked now underneath Sam, his skin fever-hot, but not from illness. It's pitch-black in the cabin, but Sam can feel the outline of the condom packet G shoves in his hand. His hands are shaking too hard to open it, so he rips the foil with his teeth.

A thought brings him up short. "Don't have any..."

"It's okay," G gasps.

And, oh God, Sam wants to believe him. Doesn't want to stop. Can't remember if he has any lube in his duffel. Can't remember his own name. "You sure?"

"It's okay. Use your tongue."

G is a freaking GENIUS, Sam decides. Tongue is a great idea. Lube later, for the slow love-making delicious-meal-time, but right now, tongue is it.

He tries to wrestle G into position, but the bunk is too small and narrow. Sam's head and shoulders are pressed uncomfortably against the underside of the upper bunk. There's a cramp in his left thigh, and his knee is killing him. "No room."

"Spit," G gasps. "Use spit. Just hurry." His body is shaking like a leaf.

"Got a better idea," Sam says. And now he's the genius, because he knows just what to do. He drags G off the bunk, shoves him on the floor, hauls him closer, opens him up, and licks him deep. G cries out again, louder.

"Quiet," Sam growls, biting the back of G's thigh for emphasis. He decides he likes biting G, likes marking his territory. He's gonna mark his territory in another way now. He pulls the condom from his pocket, undoes his jeans, and shoves them down to his knees. A distant part of Sam's brain suggests that maybe he could get naked, too, but he figures it would take too much time. Because right now Sam feels so much like a freaking teenager, like if he doesn't get off THIS VERY SECOND he will literally die.

He rolls the condom on his aching cock, then coats his fingers in spit and pushes them inside G, trying to be slow and gentle even though his hands are shaking with urgency.

"More," G grunts.

"You sure?" G's tight, and now Sam's brain is really trying to get his attention, trying to tell him something. Something important.

"More, God dammit! Hurry!"

"Okay, okay." Sam shoves a third finger in. He knows when he hits the right spot, because G's body convulses underneath him, his breath coming in whimpers.

Sam is suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He remembers the first time he encountered G, remembers him climbing aboard the rescue boat, refusing Sam's help even though he clearly needed it. He remembers G turning his face to the rising sun, body damaged but spirit unbroken, remembers him risking his life to save a stranger.

That this reckless-yet-guarded man trusts Sam enough to be in this position, naked and open just for him, suddenly seems a precious gift. Sam trembles with emotion, so much that his limbs can barely hold him up. He sprawls over G, his face inches from the curve of his lower back, breathing in the scent of his arousal. "Good?" he asks, and he's not just talking the physical part. He needs to know that G is okay with what's about to happen, that he's ready to take the next step.

"So good," G whispers. "God, Sam, so good."

Sam feels tears start in his eyes, even as his body burns for consummation. He wraps his arm around G's narrow waist and pulls him up on his hands and knees, pressing against his wet entrance. They're both shaking, and Sam's suddenly glad for the darkness; otherwise, he suspects, they would both be too overwhelmed to continue. Because this isn't just a sexual encounter. This is a mating of the deepest kind. This is forever.

"Ready, G?" Sam doesn't mean just the sex.

G says, "Please. God, please."

Sam is swamped with feelings of love and devotion. And part of him, the animal part that recognizes G as his mate, is aroused as hell. He wants to take G hard and yes, give him pleasure, but also claim him as his own. Wants everyone to know that G belongs to Sam, body and soul, and everybody else needs to back the fuck off.

So Sam leans over, glorying in the feel of G's body beneath his own, and bites the back of G's neck.

And G screams.

"Jesus Christ!" Sam backpeddles so rapidly he hits his head on the iron rail of the bunk and sees stars. His heart thumps like fist pounding on his chest. "What the fuck?"

He hears G scrabbling about in the dark, breath hitching.

"Hang on," Sam says. His hands fumble for the light switch, but he's dizzy and uncoordinated. "Just hang on."

"Clothes," G mutters. Sam feels his hands frantically patting the floor, brushing against Sam's body.

Sam's hand encounters G's sweat pants, tossed aside on the floor. "Here," he says, holding them out. He feels the fabric ripped from his hand, hears G srambling to put them on, sobbing in panic. Sam takes a moment to pull himself together, ripping the condom off and pulling up his jeans.

It only takes a second or two, but it's too long. Even as Sam's fingers hit the switch for the dim reading lamp over the bunk, G is on his feet and heading for the door.

Sam lunges. His only thought is to stop G from hurting himself. He grabs G's ankle, bringing him down, and hauls him back across the floor on his belly, away from the door.

Quick as a snake, G twists. Sam sees his foot coming and dodges the strike, which is why it only breaks his nose instead of his neck.

It hurts like a motherfucker and feels like he just got kicked in the face by a panicked horse, and yes, Sam may be a New Yorker born and bred but he knows what that feels like because it happened once in some shitty little village in Afghanistan.

Sam's head snaps back with the impact, and he releases his grip on G's ankle. G dives for his duffel, and now Sam knows he's in real trouble. He's seen men in full-on flashback mode before. When it happens, a guy could kill his best friend and not even recognize him. God only knows how many weapons G's got in that bag, but if he gets his hands on one, there's a good chance Sam could wind up dead, not to mention some poor son-of-a-bitch on night watch who hears the commotion and comes through that door.

Using the pain as fuel and his weight as an advantage, Sam launches himself at G, bringing him down just as his fingers touch the duffle. If G was at full strength he'd have a fighting chance. Fortunately for Sam he's still weak and a little slow. He manages to get the garrote off his left wrist and whips it with backward both hands, aiming for Sam's neck. If he gets it around and pulls it tight, he can strangle the bigger man even as he holds him to the floor.

Sam's ready, though. He grabs G's right wrist, breaking his grip, then his left. He yanks both arms back, gets him in a headlock, and holds him down.

"Calm down," he orders.

"Get off me!" G hisses, writhing. He snaps his head back, barely missing Sam's broken nose. It makes Sam furious. His vision goes red as his own battle rage emerges, and he tightens his grip.

"Hold still, you stupid son of a bitch! Don't make me break your wrist, because I swear to God I will!"

G continues to fight. He's growling at this point, completely out of his head, and Sam actually has to strain to hold him still.

"God-dammit, G!" he snaps. "It's me! It's Sam!"

"I'll kill you." G's voice sounds like he's possessed. "I'll kill you."

Sam knows G's back in that prison, which gives him an idea. "Agent Callen!" he barks, making his voice as deep and authoritative as he can. "Get a hold of yourself! Now!"

It's like Sam flipped a switch. G instantly stops struggling and lies still, except for his ragged breathing. Finally, he speaks, his voice thin and hoarse.

"Sam?"

Sam's body sags in relief, although he doesn't release his hold. "Yeah, G, it's me."

"Sam?" There's a note of panic now.

"It's me, baby. I'm not him."

G starts to shake as the adrenaline drains from his body. "What happened?"

"You freaking flipped out on me, is what happened," Sam growls.

"Why?"

"You tell me," Sam snaps. Now that his own adrenaline is fading, he can feel the intense pain in his nose and sense the blood gushing down his face. "I'm gonna let go, but you gotta stay down, okay?"

"Okay."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

Sam slowly releases his grip on G's wrists, ready to grab on again if he makes a move. G doesn't stir, and Sam eases back until he's sitting on his heels.

"Okay, roll over."

G slowly rolls over on his back, letting his arms fall to both sides of his head. He looks up at Sam, chest heaving as he gasps for air. They're both breathless and bruised and tearful and at this point, their earlier mood is fucking RUINED.

"That fucking does it," Sam says, his voice flat. "You and I are gonna have a talk. Right fucking now."