This got a little longer than planned and thus I had to split it into two chapters. So there's one more small epilogue left. Thank you to everyone for your kind reviews! :)

'Oh your lips taste the ocean
For you've awakened to the sound
Of your heart, of your life—
Close now, hear whispers from a love
That covers you tonight.'

~OL~

"Covers You" ~ Future of Forestry

"Did you know old muscle cars run better on high-lead fuel?"

Kensi slides into the squished-together-hospital-beds set up next to her husband and switches off the bedside lamp. A spritz of delight feathers through her chest at such a simple ablution, one she'll never take for granted again.

She's done this a million times before, somehow always the last one into bed. Marty beats her there every time. Balled up tight, big blue eye locked on her face with such guilelessness Kensi thinks his smile might stop her heart one of these days. He's a gift.

Then Deeks shuffles on the hospital pillow in an agitated motion and winces, ruining the illusion of normalcy. His stitches scrape before he levers away from the scratchy surface.

"Oh really?" Kensi plays along, stroking the area around his bandages.

Deeks jokes he looks like the Phantom of the Opera had a love child with Frankenstein, some areas swaddled in white gauze and others riddled with long, long stitch lines down his cheek and across the bridge of his reset nose.

Kensi kisses him slowly, just because she can. He tastes of hospital food and mouthwash.

"Yeah." Deeks smiles too, once the pain ebbs. Once he's back in the present.

"What is it with you and cars lately?"

"I've been thinking…"

Kensi can't help herself. "Uh oh."

The one eye Kensi can see rolls. Deeks finds a comfy spot that doesn't cause him pain. "Har har. No seriously. How does a road trip sound when this is all over? Once we can walk around for more than ten minutes without getting dizzy and your hand heals, I mean."

Kensi stops her tender ministrations to really meet his eye. "A road trip?"

"Hear me out. We travel the coast, see San Francisco and Nell for a bit, then go all the way up to the Grand Canyon."

"That's quite a trip, Mr. Deeks." Kensi props herself up on one elbow, her good hand. "And who do you suppose will do all this driving, since you're legally blind at the moment?"

"You, duh."

Kensi snorts. "We're a regular Driving Miss Daisy act, are we?"

Deeks' one eye glitters with life, warmth. He's been oddly reserved about talking when it comes to what happened, mostly because he doesn't remember all of it. Kensi's grateful for that.

There is one thing he always asks, though. It's almost a tic at this point—

"And Callen's okay?"

A rush of compassion pools in Kensi's stomach. "Yes, sweetheart. He woke this morning, remember? The doctor was so ecstatic he bought Sam a cupcake from the commissary. We just haven't visited him yet because he's resting and his breathing was agitated for a while."

"Sam got to visit him," says Deeks, a little petulant and a whole lot longing.

"Yes, but Sam is his medical consent. He had to be there for tests."

Deeks ponders this for a moment, his mind slow in understanding and retaining information. They're worried the delay will be permanent, but Kensi knows her husband is still in there, still himself no matter what avenue his brain finds to express himself.

His voice comes out cautious but even, repeating information they've reassured him with a dozen times. "Callen's asleep, not unconscious anymore."

"That's right." Kensi doesn't mind the feel of stitches and moves to kiss him again. "You saw Callen yesterday. Right after Rhea and her father left from their visit with us."

Marty thinks this over. His eye goes foggy, darting around while he muddles through the disjointed memories. "I remember now. I read him another car magazine."

A laugh escapes Kensi before she can censor it. "Shopping for a mid life crisis car, honey?"

"You know it. If we're on an indefinite vacation, then I want to make the most of it."

"That sounds divine."

"Really?" Naked surprise rings in Deeks' voice. "You're willing to spend a month with me in a car and crappy hotel rooms? I was half joking."

Kensi hears the humour, the delight in them both at being able to laugh, at having each other at all.

Her eyes burn with tears, even though she hasn't lost her smile. "If it's with you? There's no place I'd rather be."

Deeks runs a bandaged hand through Kensi's hair. She closes her eyes, savouring his touch.

They're both weary, recovery slower than they thought it would be. They know one or both of them will wake from nightmares, just like they have every night since graduating from ICU to normal trauma patient. Deeks' mind is finally piecing together what Torales did to his wife, to him, his anger at the torture and excruciating pain while they were forced to watch. They'll both be exhausted and clingy in the morning.

But together.

Kensi finds that all other priorities have been brought to heel of this one. Nothing else really matters.

"Goodnight, Marty Deeks. I love you no matter where we go or what comes next."

Already half asleep, his stubbly face brightens in a sloppy smile, teeth and all. "I love you too, Kensilina."

~OL~

The room smells like meatloaf from the nurses' station out in the hall, apparently a hospital staple the world over.

It's the only thing Callen can smell. Well, not counting the chemical taste of oxygen being fed up his nose, placed there at sundown when his blood-oxygen levels dipped enough to make the good doctors nervous.

Callen dozed off, feeling like he weighs three hundred pounds in exhaustion, shortly after Sam left to get some actual food that wasn't Jell-O (probably meatloaf) and have the orthopedic surgeon check his leg.

It took some convincing, skittish as Sam is about Callen being out of eyesight now that he's awake.

When Callen opens his eyes next, the cotton white of a full moon bathes the room instead of sunshine. Window blinds slice it into vertical stripes.

Moon and meatloaf. Callen's mind takes a photograph of the odd picture and memory association they'll make for later, years down the road when he eats meatloaf and is transported back to this quiet hospital room, with deadweight legs he can't feel and salt staining his lips.

Another colour gets added to the mix—

A golden curl.

A whole bush of golden curls.

Callen blinks as the curls bend to engulf his field of vision. He has to squint since doctors turned off all the lamps in this more isolated part of the ICU wing and whoever is bending over him blocks the moonlight.

More salt hits his cheek, but they're not his tears this time.

"Deeks?" he guesses, who Sam has informed him is up and about—and irritating everyone since his doctor told him talking will 'help with his neural recovery time.' Callen barely has to imagine the glee on Marty's face.

It's not visiting hours either, not in the dead of night like this, so the possibilities make for a short list of who it could be.

The figure doesn't answer, grabbing fistfuls of Callen's scrubs near his shoulders. The hands quiver. Tremulous, wet sounds push out around a shallow breath. Twin moons flash in the dark.

A melting fizz froths out to the recesses of Callen's limbs, as if he's a bottle of pop and someone shook him until white bubbles fill his chest. They snap across the torn vista of his flesh in an achy, warm sensation.

Callen wraps his good arm around the bony shoulders. With the pulse ox clipped on his finger, he's careful not to press too hard lest its sharp plastic edges dig in.

"Eric, hey. Missed you, buddy." Just the sight of him—and Hetty, trailing along behind—is enough to confirm to Callen that he's back on LA soil. His voice is soft and heavy with sympathy for the young man's distress. "Hey, we're good. I'm alright."

The words send a shockwave through Eric's body, an electrical jolt to both splinter elbows and the curve of his jaw.

He sniffles into Callen's shoulder. It leaves a wet spot on his scrubs, not that he cares since it's in exchange for the joy of being close to his people.

The young tech is also careful not to press into Callen's bandaged chest, but he grips the agent with more force than normal. The fabric of Callen's scrubs gets stuck under Eric's nails, in the hinge of his glasses. They tug on Callen while Eric's breath hitches.

"Callen, I didn't, you—"

"Ssshhh. Easy," Callen soothes, circling a hand on Eric's unsteady back. He hasn't been hugged with such intensity or for this long in years. The heated weight of Eric's chest sends another fizzy propulsion down Callen's arms. "We're safe. No one's dying anymore. You okay?"

Eric finally pulls back, though his glasses are a write off, fogged up and crooked on his nose. He yanks them off, tucked safely away in his shirt pocket. Not bothering with the visitor's chair, he sits next to Callen's hip on the bed.

"They wouldn't let me see you today." The words sound as if someone strangled them up his throat like the last globs in a tube of toothpaste. "I've gotten to hang out and debrief with everyone else, but you're the only one still stuck in ICU. Six days, Callen—that's how long you've been out since they flew you back from emergency surgery on the SS Carmina near Hong Kong."

"How long…?"

"You were rescued thirteen days ago."

Callen opens his mouth to thank him for the information, but Eric steamrolls over top of his friend.

"You almost died." He breathes out, hard, through his nose. This isn't said in wrecked horror or a burst of tears—Eric is furious.

The anger startles Callen, who touches Eric's elbow until his eyes flit back to Callen's face. Those are plenty wrecked, allowing Callen space to breathe. He needs Eric to look human. Normal, the last bastion of civilian innocence left in their office.

"I had to stand there in ops and watch helmet footage of the exfil team finding Torales' fortress up in flames. We thought you were all dead!"

"Did you see…" Callen clears his throat. "Did the medivac team have those helmet cameras?"

Eric scowls. "No. I had to hear about your dinghy fiasco over the phone from Kensi after the fact."

Thank God. Callen catches Hetty's eye and sees mirrored relief. Those images, both him flatlining multiple times and Sam's feral incoherency, will haunt the team for the rest of their natural lives; the less people to carry that weight, the better.

"I'm glad you woke up," says Eric, hushed now. "That you're alive."

"So am I, Eric. So am I."

Eric's lips tremble, only once, but enough for Callen to understand the cost of this rescue mission. None of them made it out unscathed. Not for the first time, he wishes Nell was around, if not for his sake, although he misses her terribly, then to comfort Eric.

Hetty touches Eric's other elbow. It's a gentle brush of gentle fingers, followed by a nod.

This must be an expected cue, for Eric turns and sits in the recliner while scrubbing a hand over his eyes without another word.

A rolling stool has been left next to Callen's bed for the doctor to sit on every time he examines Callen's chest without either of them having to adjust. Hetty sinks onto it, looking ancient, and holds the lever until the stool rises to its highest setting.

Much like Sam, she doesn't speak right away. Just studies Callen behind her owlish lenses, tie loose and crooked, no pocket square, her blazer wrinkled. Eyes lined. She hasn't bothered with makeup.

Callen's never seen her so disheveled.

"Mr. Callen, I…"

They both hold their breath for a moment.

"Grisha," she starts again, and it does the same thing to Callen's chest as when Kensi blurted his name. "I've said it to the others and now it's your turn—I'm so sorry. We should have known this kidnapping was a trap for me. That Torales expected me to come personally and not my team."

Staring at Hetty, a woman who has both had his back and manipulated behind it, Callen's not sure how to translate these words. A funny beat of quiet lodges itself somewhere in the cue ball of his Adam's apple. It wobbles there, precarious, before falling into the side pocket of his thoughts.

"You couldn't have known, Hetty."

Her smile is bitter. "We should have run better background on Torales, should have realized it was an alias and that he would hold a grudge against me all these years."

The name comes back to Callen again. The memory of hearing it feels like it happened to someone else a lifetime ago, to a Callen who thought this failed rescue would end very differently. "The Vietnamese liberation force?"

"Mmm." Hetty checks on bandages wrapped around Callen's head. He knows it's an excuse not to look him in the eye. "I used to work with a small band of American resistance fighters, who didn't approve of their government's actions overseas but couldn't openly oppose the war either."

"Torales was an enemy?"

Hetty adjusts her glasses. "On the contrary—he believed in our cause, to help Vietnamese people while stopping the senseless fighting."

"Then why did he hate you?"

"He…" A hard edge gleams in Hetty's eyes, something chilling, before it's gone. Evaporated in the time it takes her to blink twice. "Hien Lee got captured by the enemy and branded for treason by his own people. Not only a prisoner of war, but a traitor for helping American operatives like Jerome Carson and I."

Callen has heard enough stories like this to guess the outcome. "You couldn't rescue him. And he's blamed you, all this time."

"We tried, see." Hetty's volume climbs. Then she glances at a red-eyed Eric and lowers it even further than before. Callen's not sure why, since Eric saw all this and more through his digital digging and there's little need for secrecy with Torales and his people dead. "We made every effort to extract Hien from the hole he was wasting away in, but it was impossible. I don't know how he survived all this time, not to mention changing his identity and amassing such influence."

That 'hole' is not metaphorical. The ambush begins to make more sense.

"This was about revenge, not power."

At Callen's matching whisper, Hetty at last makes eye contact. Her lips wrinkle between her teeth before she releases them and when they meet the air, for a split second they are as white as the moon.

Callen extends both of his hands. Hetty settles into the grip with the cold parchment skin of someone exhausted beyond their means. Her fingers are weathered and strong nestled inside Callen's.

"None of us blame you for what happened." He hasn't talked to the rest of the team yet, but he knows there's no other way they'd react to such an apology. "If anything, I should have known something was wrong, that it was an ambush, and fallen back. You got us out, backing up Kensi's demands to check out the whale readings."

"Mr. Callen." Hetty slips one of her hands free to place it over Callen's heart. "You are more precious than my job from now on, do you understand that?"

It seems like a non-sequitur, and Callen can only blink at first. He nods even though, no. He doesn't understand. Why this should be such an important declaration for Hetty to make now eludes him.

"Likewise," she continues, "you should not have to put your country above your own health and needs."

Callen smiles, broad and nigh unto a smirk, because he's put everything and everyone above himself for so long that he's not sure that what she's talking about is even possible.

Hetty sees it, and her razor glare is back. Unyielding. Just like Kensi when she sets her mind to something.

"The paperwork for your indefinite sabbatical…or retirement, if you wish…has already been approved. You will never have cause to be separated from us or your family again. Do you hear me?"

In this, Callen does. This he understands like gravity and a pulsing sun, echoed by the moon. His priorities have shuffled with the grace of a card deck and landed squarely where they're supposed to.

"Thank you, Hetty."

Hetty bobs her head once, a military general surveying her troops—right before she stretches upwards and plants a kiss on Callen's temple.

And that, well…

That he understands perfectly.

~OL~

Kensi comes in sometime later, around three in the morning.

Unable to sleep, she's woken to find Deeks vanished. Sleeping is painful for all of them but especially for someone who's entire left cheek, eye, and head have been recently operated on. Just like Kensi with her burns, they're treated and rewrapped almost five times a day.

Deeks' absence doesn't alarm Kensi, for she already knows exactly where he is, where he always goes—probably with another magazine in hand.

She waves to a few nurses in her quest down the hall. It feels a bit like that day on the aircraft carrier, hearing the evidence of Sam's meltdown and racing to find him.

Now, she's pleased at the fact she doesn't need to rush. Her pulse is slow, her family is safe, and her injuries are quiet.

Once at Callen's room, she sags on the doorframe.

If she thought she was one for breaking protocol, then visiting the ICU of one of LA's biggest hospitals in the middle of the night is practically a crime.

Not that Eric seems to care:

He somehow weaseled up behind Callen on the bed, probably because he's skinny enough to fit there. Out like a light, he's careful not to touch the bandage on Callen's back but close enough that his hand is fisted in the tailbone of Callen's scrubs. It breaks Kensi's heart that Callen probably can't feel this.

Sam dozes in his usual recliner that a doctor lent him from her office out of pity—also fast asleep. Cast propped on Callen's bed.

Deeks is crimped up in the wooden visitor's chair, feet in Sam's lap, forehead on Sam's bicep. Sam holds Marty's ankles even in sleep, the other resting across his knees.

It exposes the shaved side of Marty's head, the bizarre patch of creamy nothing where long, bronzy strands used to be to match the ones remaining on his right side. And even those are clipped short. It's a sight Kensi hasn't adjusted to yet and probably never will. Deeks is chaos and sunshine and hair in the wind. To see him without the unruly strands, well…it will take more than time to get used to.

Kensi is also shocked at the display of trust this position requires. With Deeks' bandaged, 'blind' eye facing the room, something he never does now out of wariness, he counts on Sam to alert him if something goes wrong. His good eye presses into Sam's sweater.

Despite size differences, the four men somehow breathe in perfect synchronicity.

"My boys," Kensi sighs. It's quiet enough not to wake them, though she spots a pair of keen eyes open and watching her.

Kensi goes to Deeks first, her hand smooth over the bristles of his head. She kisses Marty's forehead, then his bare scalp. He murmurs in his throat at the familiar caress. Sam's hand instinctively tightens around him. It bunches in the fabric of Deeks' sweat pants until he calms.

Satisfied Deeks and Sam won't wake up any time soon, Kensi then turns to Callen with a wink. A rolling stool has been left at his side, still warm from someone's bedside vigil.

Kensi straddles it, lowers the lever, and walks herself closer. "Hey, tough guy."

At her whisper, Callen's grin widens. His left hand already hangs half off the mattress, as if in unashamed anticipation.

The Callen from two weeks ago would never have done such a thing. How far they've come, both physical and emotional distance. Kensi links hands with him, just like they did on the cell floor.

"Hey, sestra," he whispers back.

And Kensi's heart finally breathes.

"You're awake. And we made it." She laughs, stuttering over the inhale. Her sinuses sting in an implosion that vacuums all semblance of air.

Hand to the underside of her nose, she closes her eyes until the moment of breakaway emotion passes.

"It's not our time yet." Callen doesn't offer Kensi a tissue or hush her for getting worked up now, after the trauma is over. He just smiles at her and watches greasy strands of hair fall around her shoulders. Lets her release all the emotion she wants. "They were right—maybe we should take a lesson from the optimists."

Kensi sniffs and glances at Sam and Deeks. The two men are their tanks of hope, always pursuing the best even when circumstances won't let them.

It's a freefall without a parachute, this whole wanting things business. Good things. Things like being alive and retirement and a second chance. And the only reason they'll make it safely to the ground is because they have people to catch them, people who on their own are not enough.

But their combined strength can stop even the hardest fall.

"It's the only reason I kept fighting while being dragged away for execution," Kensi confesses softly. "I knew it's what Deeks would do."

There's an odd peace about Callen's features, one she hasn't seen in the many years she's known him. It makes her wonder what he and Sam talked about in that private visiting hour after he woke up.

His good hand stretches up for her neck, the burn edges that peek out from thick bandages. Kensi's right side took most of the brunt, and she knows she'll feel the ghosted heat of that last explosion, while running away from the fortress and the barrels she set fire to, for as long as she lives.

With Callen's hand shaky, Kensi helps hold it in place. His fingertips are rough, cracked where coral nicked them. But she grins at the touch.

Callen's proud, wondering gaze floats over this kooky sleepover and their equally kooky friends. When Kensi puts her hand on Sam's arm, the entire team is linked in one long chain of trusting, soul-dug love.

No, Kensi knows, not a team—family. We're family now.

They certainly were before this hellish experience, in all but name and blushing admission, but this cemented it beyond denying. Beyond a job prerogative. Kensi would not only gladly take a bullet for each and every person in this room, but she would live for them too. Dying for someone is easy.

Being there for all the gritty struggles of their life is much harder. More rewarding too.

Eric snuffles in his sleep, breaking Callen and Kensi out of the awed moment.

"I tried to rescue you and Sam," she whispers. "The fortress was collapsing by the time I got Deeks and Rhea on the tarp. I jogged back, but the fire…there was so much screaming…"

Callen shakes his head. "You did exactly what I would have ordered anyway. You saved our lives. Thank you, Kensi."

"You never have to thank me. I'd trade my job for you lot any day."

"But I do owe you."

"Stop that. No, you don't. Steal me some of Eric's sushi and we're even."

The throw-away words must mean something different to Callen for the way they make him light up, his face transformed into something mischievous and alert and excited.

It's like seeing all the Callens who've ever lived and who will ever live layered over top of each other at once: preschooler Callen with a toy soldier in his hand, teenage Callen stealing his first car, freshly minted agent Callen, injured Callen, in love Callen, grieving Callen, retired Callen, old Callen, elderly and sated with years…

He laughs too, and at the sound Sam smiles without waking.

"How do you feel about boat barbecues?"