Hey everyone!

Thanks for the response to the last chapter! It was great to hear from all of you again and I'm glad you're still enjoying the story - I still love reading what you have to say, and to be honest, I'm kind of sad it's ending too!

Oh, random thing I forgot to mention last chapter - when Hetty said "Leon owes me", I actually meant Leon Panetta, the Secretary of Defense...but Vance works too! My OCD with this story made me mention that.

As for this chapter, I've been calling it 'deleted scene' since I started writing it. You'll now find out why!

Disclaimer - I own nothing.

Enjoy!

It had been a long time since he was last in this city, and in his opinion it wasn't nearly long enough. The only time he'd called it home was when he worked with the Agency, and those years weren't exactly fond memories for either party – though Langley had no problems with him when he was completing their missions and keeping their secrets. This city had always seemed restrictive to the man who made a life out of constantly changing. But people willing to help an accused rogue agent were few and far between, and Washington D.C. just happened to have one of them. So like it or not, he was stuck.

It was this fact that found Callen walking up a quiet street late in the night with a slight limp to his gait. His side hurt like hell and he was weak from losing blood, but he'd managed to patch himself well enough to make the 2,700-plus mile flight. Leaving had been the best idea - it wasn't safe for anyone in L.A. anymore, least of all the woman he was running from. Physically safe, yes – but otherwise, not so much.

The look on Kensi's face when he'd said goodbye had followed him all the way from that warehouse to his current spot in D.C. The confusion in her eyes, the hurt in her voice…they'd echoed through the hours and the miles and tore at his resolve to stay away. After finally getting the man who killed her father, the man who had caused her years of questions and pain, she was still unable to have the peace she deserved. And knowing that he was the reason she couldn't only further cemented his plan to cut ties after the mission. It had taken every ounce of sense he had to walk away.

Callen was never a man quick to run away from a situation, but one week with Kensi Blye had scared him. It had been too long since he'd had someone to depend on and someone that depended on him. He'd been kept from that closeness for years and had found it with the woman who had at first been a means to an end. The foreign feeling confused and conflicted him beyond what he was willing or able to rightly express, so he did the one thing his mind told him was the right thing to do – he ran.

He turned his focus to the quiet sounds of the night and his steady, crunching footsteps instead of on things he told himself to forget. He felt no guilt in calling on this particular person at an ungodly hour of night. If he knew anything about his old friend, he was definitely not asleep. It was a trait they shared, among other things. Callen lifted a fist to the door but stopped himself before knocking. The door would be unlocked (even though he himself had suggested doing otherwise in the past) so he let himself in and went to the place where he knew he'd find its tenant.

As expected, his unknowing host was right where expected; hunched over an old workbench, the steady sound of sandpaper scraping wood filling the air. Callen leaned against the rail of the stairs for a moment as another wave of pain came and quietly watched the work. It was comforting to know that for all the unpredictability in life, at least one thing could remain the same.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" the man's stern voice asked, never once looking up from his work. Callen felt the corner of his mouth twitch at the old Marine's tone.

"Now, there's no way you were expecting me," he answered. The sanding stopped abruptly as the older man lifted his head, slowly turning and putting his piercing gaze on his new guest. Callen smirked at him from his place on the stairs. "Hello, Gibbs."

The gray-haired man stared at him for another moment before answering. "Hello Callen."

"How's about that drink?"

Gibbs didn't respond, only dumped a jar of bolts out onto the counter and reached for a bottle. The other agent gripped the railing and slowly started down the rest of the stairs. He kept his face straight but couldn't help the wince that came with the jerking movements.

"What brings you to D.C.?"

Callen set himself down heavily on a sawhorse and gratefully took the proffered glass, downing it quickly. "Oh, just on the run from my former team," he answered, watching as Gibbs poured him a refill. "You know, since I've been selling out the military and my country, as the brass would say," he finished dryly, unable to keep the bitter tone from his voice and knowing it would be useless to try.

Gibbs chuckled and nodded. "So I've heard."

Silence fell as Callen nursed his second glass of bourbon. He could feel his friend's gaze watching him with interest and more than a little concern in his knowing eyes. Gibbs had always been good at reading people and Callen knew that the grunt in his voice and occasional winces weren't going unnoticed by the veteran agent with eagle eyes.

"It's not that bad," he stated, answering the question that had been hidden in the silence.

"It never is," Gibbs quipped, holding out his glass. Callen smirked and tapped his jar against it, throwing back the amber liquid after. They drank quietly before Gibbs spoke again. "You going to tell me what happened?"

Callen stared him down for a moment before shaking his head. "Let's just say things didn't go as planned. Didn't have the clean getaway I hoped for."

"Who is she?" Gibbs asked suddenly. Callen's gaze snapped up, examining the knowing glint in his friend's eyes. "I've seen that look before," he answered to the former agent's question.

Callen felt a corner of his mouth twitch. "An agent. An NCIS agent," he clarified. "One of Sam's." If things had gone differently, he noted, she would have been his agent. "Her father was murdered by the man who had me framed."

Gibbs nodded in understanding. "Rule 12," he said simply.

Callen snorted. "Doesn't exactly apply," he pointed out, "but I know what you mean." Callen sighed and gazed into his amber-colored glass. "It wasn't supposed to happen at all."

Gibbs raised his glass again in a half salute. "Now that I know I've heard before," he stated and Callen chuckled. "You were good, Callen. You can still be good."

"Yeah," he trailed wistfully, remembering Kensi's words that had gone along the same lines. Hoping to drown the sudden memory of her soft body pressed into his own and her lips trailing kisses along his jaw, he threw back the rest of his bourbon as an unspoken end to that line of conversation.

After another bout of talk concerning Gibbs' boats, keeping in practice with Russian, and rehashing years-old missions, Callen had finally drank enough whiskey to keep his recent memories and pain at bay. With the implied promise of a place to lay low and sort it out, he felt more comfortable here in D.C. than he had since he'd left Kensi and L.A. behind over six hours before.

Callen laughed along with his friend before Gibbs finally stood and clicked the work light off. "What are you going to do?"

Callen considered his suddenly stern question, staring down at the sawdust covered floor. He only wished he had an answer. He shook his head and faced Gibbs, seeing the ever-present knowing look on the older man's face. And in typical-Gibbs fashion, he gave Callen an answer (minus a head-slap).

"Get it together."

Callen gave a half-hearted toast with his nearly empty glass and watched as Gibbs climbed the stairs, leaving him alone in the dark.