The first thing Sam saw, when he stepped onto the aft deck of the Ripple, was a wadded up t-shirt, which appeared to have been kicked into the corner. Recognizing it as one of Callen's preferred styles, he picked it up and critically examined the blood stain on the side of it; right where Callen's knife wound was located. It wasn't a huge spot, but enough to confirm to Sam that Callen was pushing himself too hard, too fast, as usual. Sam heard a noise behind him and turned in time to see Callen emerging from the Ripple's cabin, pulling a new t-shirt over his head. A fleeting expression of guilt flashed across Callen's face when Sam asked, "Did you stop the bleeding, or are you going to ruin that shirt too." As Callen started to deny it, Sam simply held aloft the bloody shirt, he picked up from the deck.
Callen, the chameleon, quickly changed tactics; denial was not an option so he went for misdirection. "That shirt has been there for days. Since the attack," he boldly lied.
Sam shook his head slowly and sadly. "Really G. Is that your best shot? Cause if it is, I know your brain is still offline. Last time I checked, old blood is dark red, almost brown, like me. Fresh blood is bright red, like you with a sun-burn. You're not color-blind, and neither am I. And this stain," Sam held the shirt aloft again, "looks like a brand new red corvette, straight off the show room floor."
Callen shifted his weight, as he placed his hands on his jean-clad, slim hips. "Ok. Maybe I got a little too enthusiastic..."
"... at 4:00 am in the morning," Sam slid in the jibe.
Callen glared at Sam as he continued. "...fixing one of the bullet holes in the hull."
"Ah-huh. You're lucky you didn't fall into the water and drown," Sam drily pointed out as tossed the dirty shirt at Callen.
Callen easily caught it. "I can swim. I swam out of the sub didn't I?"
"Actually. I think your fat just carried you to the surface."
Looking indignant, Callen declared, "I'm not fat."
Sam gave a derisive snort. "As the guy who spends half his life carrying your ass out of danger, I'll be the judge of that."
Callen had his retort on his lips, when his knees unexpectedly began to buckle. In a flash, Sam was at his side supporting him and preventing him from crashing to the deck. Callen cursed his traitorous body, as Sam carefully helped him over to the fishing chair. Callen gratefully sank into the seat, which was better than sprawling face first on the deck, even if he had mopped them clean already this morning.
Sam raised his eyebrows at Callen, who laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Pushed it a tad too much this morning did we?"
Without opening his eyes, Callen raised his right hand, and with his thumb and forefinger, indicated a small measurement. "Maybe. A little," he grudgingly conceded.
Sam dropped into the other chair, and spun it to face Callen. "I talked to Hetty this morning. She said we could stay here the rest of the week; help Ray get the boat back in shape. After all, it is his livelihood. But I guess you were channeling Hetty, since you were already out here, doing exactly that."
Callen rolled his head onto his left shoulder. "Mm-hmmm," he hummed, raising the pitch of the last few 'm's, as was his style.
"Of course," Sam continued in the infuriating tone he used when talking to Callen about medical issues, "you won't be able to help much if I'm to take you back to the hospital because you had a relapse. And don't say I wouldn't dare because you know I would."
Callen, who had been about to say that, wisely remained quiet.
Without warning, because that was always the best way to do anything medically related to Callen, Sam reached over and laid his hand on his partner's forehead. "Hot," he proclaimed. "You're running a fever."
"You're not my mother," Callen muttered, his standard reply, as he jerked his head away.
Standing up, Sam reached into his pocket withdrawing two pill bottles which he noisily rattled in Callen direction like a pair of maracas. "Did we, perhaps, forget to take our meds?" Before Callen could formulate an answer, because the only a right one was 'yes', Sam was off to the cabin, to snag a bottle of water. He came back out with three pills in his hand and stood menacingly over Callen. "Take these now," he shoved the pills and the water into Callen's personal space.
Callen, to his credit, took the pills without argument; though Sam stood over him until he was satisfied Callen actually swallowed them.
"You could have at least coated them with peanut-butter or wrapped them in cheese. That's what we did for Buddy," Callen kvetched as he took another swig of water.
Sam retook his seat in the other chair. "Buddy? The dog you had on assignment? The one your wife ran off with?"
Callen gave a little 'whatever' shrug. "Always seemed like a more civilized manner in which to deal with pills."
"Fine," Sam sarcastically replied. "Next time I have to give you a pill, I will coat it in peanut-butter, grab you by the muzzle, force your mouth open, shove the pill down your throat, hold your mouth closed and stroke your throat until you swallow."
Callen gave him a rather cold glare. "I was only asking for a little consideration." Suddenly, Callen's eyes narrowed, as his mind realized an out of place fact. "Wait, you showed me two bottles, but made me swallow three pills."
"Maybe one pill required a double dose," Sam casually answered.
One of Callen's talents was good recall. "No, that's not the right, because each pill was different in size, shape and color."
"Oh," Sam said like he had a great revelation. "That's right. You mean this pill." He pulled a third bottle out of his pant's pocket. "The one that Hetty gave me, before I left, because she knows you too well."
Dread colored Callen's voice. "What does it do?"
"Not much, well other than knock you out for about four hours. And don't," Sam added when he saw the slightest twitch in Callen's body, "even think of trying to vomit them up." The small sag in Callen's posture told Sam he had been on the mark with Callen's next move.
Callen turned away, but not before Sam saw the small glint of fear in his partner's blue eyes. "G," he said compassionately, "Hetty said they are not that strong. You'll be able to wake up, if you need to. I'm your partner. I wouldn't do that do you."
Callen gave a small, appreciative nod, knowing exactly to what Sam was referring. Callen wasn't invincible, things scared him too and his greatest fear was loss of control over his mind, his body and his actions. When he was drugged, and couldn't get his mind or body to obey his commands, it terrified the agent. While he had managed to keep a grip on himself when it had occasionally happened in the field, when he had been taken prisoner, the trauma also left him very unsettled. It was like the nightmares that haunted his sleep. If he could wake up from them, when he wanted too, force himself back to consciousness, he could bear them; not like them, but at least suffer through them without losing his mind. When drugged, he lost that ability.
"I promise. I'll wake you up if needed. I won't let you suffer G," Sam said zeroing in on the issue.
Callen smiled gratefully, which turned into a yawn. "Thanks," he said as he rose from the chair, heading towards the cabin. "The stuff, over there," he gestured to a pile of supplies, "is to patch the bullet holes. You like to work with wood. She is a wooden ship. Have at it." With that, Callen disappeared into the cabin, flopped on the couch, and drifted off into a drug induced nap.
The rest of the morning went smoothly. Sam began working on repairing the Ripple, while keeping his promise and checking on Callen. Once, he found his friend in the throes of a bad dream and he gently woke him. Callen had lightly surfaced, which must have broken the nightmare because the blond simply rolled over and went back into a more peaceful slumber.
Ray showed up mid-morning and joined in fixing the repairs. At first, Sam kept a weather-eye on Ray too, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Unlike stubborn Callen, Ray seemed to get the concept of recovery, and the man rested before he pushed his healing body too far.
"So Ray," Sam started conversationally as they worked side-by-side repairing the bullet holes on the bridge. "How do you know Hetty?"
Ray stopped spreading the putty in the hole and glanced over the rail at the other boats bobbing in the marina. "I really don't know her. Never met her. But in any organization, there are rumors and whisperings, of those that are exceptionally talented or those that use extremely unorthodox methods."
Sam let out a lazy smile. "I think Hetty falls into both of those categories."
Ray nodded in concurrence. "From what I have heard over the years, and during the ten minutes I spoke to her on the phone the other day, I'd have to agree. Nate and I, on the hand, go way back. I was his mentor when he joined. We have kept in loose contact over the years, never officially worked together, until now I guess. if you consider this a 'mission'," he air quoted.
"Sam gave a small snort. "Mission. Vacation. Saving my dumb-ass partner from himself...again," Sam said with a touch of bitterness that Ray picked up on.
Ray turned and looked Sam square in the face. "You're still upset. By Callen running, aren't you Sam."
Sam put down the putty knife and sat back on his heels. "To be honest, yea I am. Angry and upset."
"And you know what? That is perfectly understandable. And you shouldn't feel the least bit guilty," Ray compassionately explained and the small twitch in Sam's check told him he had hit the target on the mark.
Sam scowled slightly. "Well I do feel guilty. I know who Callen is, what drives him and yet I still keep thinking he will change. And then when he does something like this, it makes me angry. At him and at myself."
"Because you want Callen to come to you to work out his issues. Not go it alone. SEALS are a team. SEALS have each other's back. SEALS never go it alone," Ray correctly surmised.
"Exactly!" Sam said slamming his fist into his leg. "Haven't I shown him over and over I have his back? That he can trust me? And yet when he gets backed into an emotional corner, he still goes lone wolf on me!"
"And do you think he doesn't know that? That you care about him? That you don't want him to run?" Ray pointedly asked the upset man.
"Well if he does," Sam grumbled, grimacing and looking down at the deck, "He has a funny way of showing it."
"Oh come on Sam. You don't really believe that do you. Deep in your heart you know Callen trusts you more than anyone else in his life. And I mean that Sam. Anyone. Do you know what a huge feat that is Sam?" Ray paused and glanced back at the water. "When you came into that hospital room, he immediately calmed down. When you touched him on the shoulder the other day, when he was upset, he didn't flinch at all but totally accepted your comfort and concern. And those are just two little things I have noticed since you arrived." Ray looked back over at Sam. "Those are huge indicators of Callen trust in you. If I hadn't seem them myself, I wouldn't think it was possible. The man I met on a bench a few weeks ago gave every indication he could never trust anyone that deeply. Yet he does...you."
Sam sat quietly, digesting the words that Ray said. "You're right Doc. And I should stop thinking Callen will ever truly change. Isn't that a sign on insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? Am I insane?" he lightly asked Ray.
Ray laughed out loud. "You'd have to be to survive your partner. You guys are both insane, but you make it work for you. Gotta love that." With that, Sam picked up his tools and started working again and they passed the rest of the morning in lighter topics of conversations
In the afternoon, Callen woke up, and after eating, joined Sam and Ray on the repairs. The rest of the week went mostly the same. Callen would always be gone in the morning by the time Ray and Sam got up, and after the two men ate breakfast, they would stroll over to the docks and join Callen, who had already put in a few hours of work. Sam would argue with Callen that he wasn't resting and would threaten Hetty's pills and Callen would go right back at him about 'mothering'. Ray had quickly learned there was no malice in any of these exchanges, and that they were actually a 'manly' form of care and concern.
Throughout the day, Sam and Callen would have these little sessions, where one started razzing on the other, insults would fly and threats would be issued, but not acted upon, usually. Ray came to learn it was all part of their shtick. However, when there was a perceived hint of danger, these two were all about having each other's backs, and Ray had seen it in action.
The three of them had been working on the boat one afternoon, when a gunshot was heard on a boat moored a few docks over. Callen and Sam had gone immediately on point, drawing their guns that Ray hadn't even realized they were carrying, and scurrying down the dock towards the gunfire. He had watched them, like a Swiss watch, move in unconscious precision to apprehend the gunman. It turned out to be a misunderstanding; the man had been cleaning his weapon when it went off, which earned him a stern, and frankly, scary lecture from Sam, one Ray was sure the man would never, ever forget. By the time the police arrived on the scene, the two had holstered their weapons. They melted back into the small crowd that had gathered, and then disappeared back over to the Ripple. Ray had been impressed by the whole thing and it really cemented in his mind what a great partnership Hetty had formed in Sam and Callen.
At the end of the week, when the Ripple had been restored to her former glory, the three of them took her on a test run. With food and drink, they headed out into the Pacific. As the time drifted into the night, one of the shore towns had a fireworks display, which the three men enjoyed sitting off the coast, well at least Ray did. He wondered if the noise of the fireworks hit too close to home at times for the field agents.
Ray was actually a bit sad when the week was up and the two men indicated they had to return to work. It had been nice to have company in the evenings as they sat on the deck, eating and swapping tales. He had enjoyed the work-related stories, the ones they had been able to share, and had come to look forward to the verbal exchanges, like two brothers bickering. Callen had definitely played some mind games on him, some which Ray caught onto and others, he was sure, that went right past him.
Ray knew Sam had been trying to have some serious conversations, with Callen, about the Joelle incident and they hadn't gone well. One night, in frustration, Sam had sought Ray out in his professional capacity to lament about Callen. It frustrated Sam that Callen dealt with his personal issues by double wrapping them in brown paper and putting tape around them like they were classified media, then shoving them in the far reaches of the compartmentalized vault that was G Callen's mind. Sam wanted Callen to talk; Callen wanted to remain silent.
Ray had done his best to try to ease Sam's frustrations, though what he was telling Sam, he knew wasn't new to the man. Sam was an astute judge of the human character in his own regards and knew exactly how and why his partner dealt with his feelings the way he did; he just didn't like it. It didn't fit with his SEAL mentality. So Ray knew Sam hadn't come to him for help really, more for sympathetic ear, which Ray provided.
Sunday morning, they shook hands outside the condo, and Ray had told them they were welcome back at any time, and they thanked him, though all parties involved knew it was highly unlikely to occur. The two agents had gotten into the car and headed out to the highway to make the long drive back to LA.
The trip back wasn't too bad, except for the traffic when they got close to the city. Callen napped off and on, which told Sam his partner was still not fully recovered. Sam vowed to keep a slightly closer eye on the man over the next week or so, to make sure he didn't overdo it. Of course, Hetty would be there too, so it would be two on one, better odds.
It was pretty late when he dropped Callen off at his house. Sam offered to pick him up in the morning to carpool to work, but Callen had politely refused him. Sam didn't argue, said goodnight, and drove off.
Once inside, Callen made a quick recon of the house to make sure everything was in order. While he was doing that, his stomach let out a huge grumble. Wandering into the kitchen, he knew his tummy was going to be disappointed. After being gone for more than a month, any food that was not boxed, canned or sealed, wasn't going to be edible and Callen didn't have much into that fit those categories under the best of times. There might be a box of cereal in the cupboards, but any milk would have turned into a science experiment.
Bracing himself for a bowl of dry, cold cereal, he opened the cabinet and was surprised when a multitude of boxed and canned goods were stocked neatly on the shelves. With a growing suspicion, he opened a few more and found them equally well supplied. Yanking open the fridge door, with a little less dread then he had a few minutes ago, he found that too, was a cornucopia of edibles. Gratefully, he grabbed some fresh cold cuts, bread, mayo and even lettuce and made himself a nice thick sandwich. With a glass of fresh, non-expired milk, he wandered into the living room, flopped in his favorite chair and enjoyed his repast.
Actually, when it came to food, Callen would eat just about anything. When you grew up like he did, you couldn't afford to be fussy, not if you didn't want to starve. He even liked vegetables, a lot, but simply enjoyed busting Sam and his co-workers chops too much to openly admit it; rather like the coffee, tea scam.
Callen wasn't stupid and knew exactly who he should be thanking for his well-stocked kitchen. He was grateful she did it and equally grateful she hadn't taken the opportunity to forth redecorate his house; she had been known to do that in the past when he was AWOL. He thought of it as her punishment to him, when he disobeyed her and had the nerve to disappear. When he came back, and he always had so far, she had civilized his house a bit more.
Content, he drank the last dregs of milk, set the glass on his lone side table then drifted off to sleep in the chair.