AN: I so appreciate everyone who has come along for the ride, and I hope you enjoy this little denouement.

Peace and love to you all!


'Oh how I have stumbled through the path I took to get to you.
"Be prepared to be surprised." Opened my eyes when it was time,
And you were standing strong and tall and unafraid to risk it all
For the story that we found ourselves in.'

"What Have We Found Ourselves In" ~ Jess Ray

~OL~

Sometimes Callen still feels the rocking.

Not the helicopter's rocking, that transported him while saving his life; not the fortress rocking from Kensi's chaotic, homemade bombs; not Sam rocking him in the hospital when he woke that first time.

Instead, on clear, cold nights when the stars are so bright they hurt Callen's eyes, he closes them and feels that rocking of the dinghy. Gentle…swaying…so utterly quiet they might have drifted off into space.

He'll feel it up to the moment he takes his last breath, he knows.

Rocking. Living. Hoping for something better. It's all the same in the end Callen is learning, a day at a time.

"Hey, pass me the mayo?"

Callen wakes from his reverie to feel that he's sitting at a picnic table at the park instead of the dinghy. Surrounded by cheerful noise instead of the incessant ocean waves and a whale's spray.

He smiles at Deeks, where he sits to the left of Callen's wheelchair. "You mean ketchup?"

Deeks blinks—both eyes, finally. The injured eye is open now, exposed to the light after a month's recovery time and reconstruction incisions having faded to red scars, but it's milky and stays at half mast most days. Jagged strips of white scar tissue run down his brow into the duct of his eye, then across to meet the puckered trenches along his left cheek.

Just to see him without sunglasses is rare.

The expressive eyes light a match burrowed deep inside Callen, the part of him that essentially said goodbye to his friend on the cell floor.

Deeks thinks this over, hand paused around a hot dog on his plate. At least his hair has grown back enough to flutter ever so slightly in the wind, almost the same length as when they first met him.

"We don't have any mayo," Callen clarifies, patient. He has to raise his voice to be heard over Sam and Kensi's bickering. "Remember?"

An animated discussion about whether to go gambling is already in full swing.

"Deeks and I are not stopping in Vegas on this road trip."

"It's an Americana rite of passage!"

"It's stupid, is what it is." Kensi argues around a mouthful of chips. She's got her feet propped up and off to the side, bare toes huddled under Sam's thigh, paper plate balanced on her knees. A precarious feat, specially with one hand in a fabric cast and still splinted to high heaven. "We'll be lucky enough to make it to Nevada, let alone Vegas or the Grand Canyon."

"Don't know what you're missing."

"Neither do you! Sam, admit it—you've never been to Vegas in your life."

Callen ignores the childish voices in favour of waiting on Deeks' thoughts to catch up with the present.

He mentally kicks himself when Deeks eyes condiment bottles placed amongst the heaps of food. (So much food. Callen half wonders if Mrs. Deeks and her stellar cooking are trying to kill them.) It's a look they're all starting to recognize, the slight parting of Deeks' lips combined with furrowed brows their cue that he's searching for a word.

Callen leans closer, hand on Marty's arm to keep his drifting attention. "Did you mean mustard?"

Deeks snaps his fingers. "That's it! Got mixed up."

"Both words start with an M," Callen says, in dead serious solidarity for the aphasiac moment. "Very confusing."

He slides the bottle of mustard over to Deeks and grins at a generous glob he squirts on top of his hot dog. He's the only one still working away at his lunch. Forget seconds—he's onto thirds and fourths by now. Callen doesn't know where his lean body puts it all.

"Besides, we're not here because of this hypothetical road trip." Kensi apparently decides she can't win against a determined Sam and her best tac is to change the subject. "We're here to celebrate Callen being free of the hospital today."

Callen scoffs and points to his wrist, wrapped in a thick blue strip of plastic. Then his wheelchair. "Free? Yeah right. I'm on outpatient discharge."

Kensi holds up her beer in a toast. "It still counts. To making it home."

The four tap their bottles—non-alcoholic for Deeks and Callen on their particular medication—and smile at the clinking notes.

Sunshine feathers across their faces through the leaves of a broad oak tree overhead. Sam closes his eyes for a moment as if to better enjoy the feeling. Deeks hums a tune while he chews his hot dog and Kensi continues her attempts to balance the paper plate, now also attempting to braid her hair at the same time.

And Callen…Callen finds himself just glad that he can look at them all, the faces of these people he never thought he'd get to see again, no matter how battered those faces might be.

The thought whispers to him again, that perhaps what happened was worth it in exchange for this breaking down of barriers.

It's the most relaxed the four have been since they got home.

It's also the first time in weeks they've been left alone, just each other.

Psychologists have tried prying them apart, get them to stop camping out in each other's rooms and sharing beds and having a hand on each other all the time. Spectacularly unsuccessful, to the doctors' dismay. Even Eric doesn't sleep well unless the team is within earshot.

There's a thread to it, wound in shiny spools between their bodies. Sometimes Callen can't sleep and feels claustrophobic, stuck inside his own body and legs that refuse to move. Without fail, every time this happens, Sam wanders in from his adjacent room. Be it the dead of night or ten in the morning.

Callen doesn't know how Sam senses this so well and he doesn't ask.

They sit together in silence until Callen's heart calms, just holding each other's hands. It's the closest he's ever felt to Sam.

Peace and independence are not always correlated. Callen could never conceive of admitting such a thing ten years ago. Hell, even two years ago. Needing people was always seen as a weakness, something crippling.

He knows better now. Far better.

Callen decides he needs to shoulder Marty's job for a while and say what needs to be said. "You guys can go on that road trip anytime you want. Don't wait for us."

Kensi startles, badly, spilling beer down her fingers. Deeks' eye pops wider in surprise.

"He's right." Sam nods at Callen. "We know the only reason you two haven't left is because you're afraid to let us out of sight."

Despite the angry denial in Kensi's eyes, her lips quiver for a split second. She wipes a napkin down her hands.

"Kens?" Callen's voice comes out soft. "You don't have to keep watch over us anymore. Sam and I are healing and we have each other. Go live. Take some time off."

"I'll always worry about you," she snaps back, but it lacks heat.

Codependence isn't healthy, every textbook and every medical professional says. Callen agrees, if for no other reason than he's watching it eat up their family in real time. A part of him rebels, doesn't want them out of eyesight either.

But Kensi and Deeks need to find their solace too, soul weary as they are. Time to recharge together.

"It's not permanent." Sam backs up his partner with gentle words and a hand on Kensi's ankle. "You'll be back before you know it, and by then we'll have lots of Tootsie pop wrappers to cover your desk with."

A bark of wet laughter escapes Kensi almost before she seems to register it. The sound makes them smile…yet it also has a funny effect on Deeks. He shifts at Callen's side.

Callen turns to him, ready to allay any of the usual confusion he has lately with following conversations. This wouldn't be the first time he misses context and doesn't understand how they switched topics or the emotional weight of a comment changes their tones.

But when they look, he's beaming, an impish twinkle flashing in his eye. The sight takes Callen's breath away.

They haven't seen him like this in nearly two months.

"Marty?" Callen asks for them.

Deeks points to his wife. "You're just scared I could own you at Texas Hold'em."

Shock envelopes the table. Kensi's jaw goes slack at the cheeky expression on Deeks' face. The trio stares, to make heads or tails of this non sequitur.

Sam recovers first and holds out his fist. "Now that's what I'm talking about! My man knows how to have a good time."

Deeks fist bumps him, so pleased with himself for the jab he's oozing with it.

Callen finally clues in that Deeks is contributing to the earlier argument, prompted by Kensi's distress. He wanted to make her feel better. It's the most in-character moment Deeks' has displayed since they were rescued—water is wet and Deeks teases Kensi to cheer her up.

"Are you sure about that, Mr. Deeks?" Kensi wags a playful finger at him, even though her eyes are bright and she's slumped on her elbow at the same rush of love they're all feeling. "I was a poker champion at sleepaway camp."

"You're on." Deeks says it without hesitation, completely in the present, and Sam fist bumps again. He's a little bright eyed too.

The rocking hits Callen afresh, that unique sensation of being in a tiny, open topped boat and spinning off to worlds unknown. It's life. And it's theirs, all theirs.

He might not know where they're going, but they're squished up together in this boat.

Because of that, they'll make it home, every time.

Kensi reaches across the table for Callen's right hand. He's pleased that he can feel her touch, lacking any nerve damage. "You'll really be alright? Both of you?"

Callen flicks his eyes askance to his partner, only to see Sam already gazing at him with undiluted warmth. Lips flipped up on one side and the other unsteady with emotion. With hope. With fountain springs of promise.

The expression is a preview of coming attractions, based on the vow made in that hospital room of being able to lean on each other and not drop.

A slow smile creeps over Callen's face.

He answers for them both: "I think we already are."

~OL~

'I love him – his shoulders, his angular, stooping figure – and at the same time I see behind him woods and stars, and a clear voice utters words that bring me peace…taking the road that lies under the high heaven, seldom sorrowful, forever pressing on under the wide night sky…'

~OL~

Footsteps hustle closer, place something down with a cler-thunk, then retreat. Their owner hums a tune along with a popcorn radio, static crackles accompanying the old Armstrong song. A trumpet solo wriggles through the air with aplomb.

Callen murmurs himself awake. "At least it's not improvisational jazz."

"Would you shut up?" Sam says without missing a beat. "You wouldn't know good music if it proposed to you."

Callen smiles, his eyes still closed. He enjoys the rocking under his spine and worn plushness of the couch, the homely smell and sound of fish cooking on the stove. Sunlight streams through panel windows above him, turning his cozy spot into a sliver of paradise.

The familiarity and ease of this is, dare he say it, domestic.

A very unorthodox domestic, granted. But there's something safe about the sounds of Sam puttering around that makes Callen's heart leap out of hiding.

"Where are we this time?"

At one time in his life, Callen would feel very squirrely even having to ask that question. Control equalled survival. If you had to trust someone else to take you places, then you were asking to get taken advantage of.

Now, Callen relishes the feeling of Sam steering the boat while he naps. He wakes to different places and sights each time. It's the same sensation a child gets when handed a gift, that upwell of anticipation right before the wrapping paper is torn into.

Sam murmurs a fond and amused sound. "See for yourself."

Callen does, opening his eyes on another cloudless day, sun at its peak. Through the windows above, he gets a glimpse of…palm trees? They sway in a strong afternoon breeze.

So far this month, they've been cruising along up north, to see the Canadian tail of the Rockies. They began trekking their way back down two weeks ago, hoping to cross the Canal and go up along the Atlantic later in the year, but Callen hasn't seen palm trees in ages.

Absently, his hand travels to his chest, the funny, tight places where a skin graft put him back together again in what seemed to him a barbaric process. Eight months hasn't been nearly enough time for it to feel like his skin.

Sam walks by again in an apron, one hand on his cane and the other flipping fresh-caught tuna in a frying pan. "Hey! Doc said no scratching."

"Worry wart."

"I heard that!"

Callen smirks. "At least we know your ears still work."

"You're lucky my hands are full."

Callen sits up, shedding the blanket, and reaches for his own crutches, a necessary evil in this mobility rehabilitation process. He's just grateful he can feel his legs at all now. That their physiotherapists agreed to let Sam and Callen go away for a while, doing the exercises on their own without regular check-ins.

As predicted, he regained sensation in his lower half once the swelling went down, though his nerve endings are taking their good sweet time re-learning how to send command signals. Some days they don't want to bend or flex.

Even the slightest fine motor skill takes sweat-level effort and many mornings Callen can only lay there until Sam gets up for the day, kneeling beside the couch with a commiserating look. A hand will smooth across the short thicket of his hair, in tandem with a squeeze to his shoulder.

From what Callen can tell on video chats, Kensi is fighting the same battle with her hand. They all cried when she proudly picked up a piece of string and knotted it. It's led to a strange show-and-tell process on each call—just last week, Sam walked ten feet without his cane.

Sam must see the grimace. "It's only been eight months since hospital discharge, man. Have some patience. You'll be as good as new in a year or two, just you wait."

Winding up for a sharp comeback, Callen remembers his conversation with Kensi. Its cool balm douses his pessimistic fire. "Yeah…yeah, you know what? You're probably right."

Sam nearly drops the pan. He stares at his partner, eyeing the crutches. "Are you feeling lightheaded? Did you just agree with me?"

Callen nudges him while hobbling by. "Don't get used to it."

"We're docking in an hour—prepare for the welcoming committee."

Those melodic strains well up inside Callen, there almost any time he stops and reflects for even the briefest minutes. It's almost a refuge, the chance to stop and listen to what it's all saying.

He looks out at LA's skyline through the front windows. "Another barbecue?"

"Kensi and Deeks finally finished their never-ending road trip. They have some big announcement for us."

Callen whips around to catch Sam's eyes, which are already a tad shinier than they should be. That conversation on the dinghy might as well have happened seconds ago for how fresh it is in both their minds. "We're gonna be the best uncles ever."

Sam doesn't find it in himself for a joke, just watching Callen's face with the helpless gaze of someone who has so much love for another person that they don't know where to store it all.

He palms Callen's cheek. It too feels warm and safe. "Welcome home, G."

And he's not talking about LA, not even about this boat or their retirement plans on it. Callen knows they have a long way to go, all four of them with decisions to make about whether this retirement is permanent, Hetty's offer of a desk analyst job, relationships, Anna, how to cope with injuries they'll never fully heal from.

But the tidal wave of crossing some invisible finish line swells inside Callen's chest.

He sees the future unravel before him, exactly the way they lived it on the dinghy. Each thump of his heart aches in sanguine detail, the gratifying kind of ache that makes him feel like maybe everything is exactly the way it was intended.

Only then does Callen glance at the gift Sam set out on the coffee table, directly in his eye line from where he lay on the couch.

It's a simple round vase—

Inside, cradled by sunlight and promise, is a purple lilac.


(Written August - December 2020.)