Countdown
"How did it get so late so soon? It's night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flown... How did it get so late so soon?"- Dr. Seuss.
64 Hours, 21 minutes.
Someone once said that time is a fickle mistress, but Sam's never realized the truth in that quite as clearly until now. It takes another forty-five minutes to arrange a flight, and four hours on a quarantined CDC flight to arrive in Druid Hills, Georgia. He hasn't seen his partner since they left L.A. and when his phone goes off in the corridor of the CDC's headquarters he has to resist the urge to bang his head against the wall.
He retreats from the nurse that shoots a dirty look his way and drops his head into his hands as the O.S.P.'s number appears on his phone's caller I.D. He's got no more answers for them than he did five hours ago when he last saw Callen and all he wants to do is find his partner. He'll figure out the rest from there.
He thumbs the talk button, presses the phone to his ear, and mutters something that's meant to be 'Hello'. It comes out closer to a mix between a grunt and 'Go Away', but he figures he has ample excuse. If one more CDC doctor mentions how sorry they are for his loss, he's going to snap because his partner's not dead, not yet. It's denial or wishful thinking, or some combination of both, and he's more than happy to indulge in that for now.
"Sam?" Its Eric's voice on the phone, sounding tiny and decidedly strung out, "Did you hear what I just said?"
There's a moment of silence where Sam stares at his phone's screen because there's no way he just spaced out and missed part of the conversation, except apparently he did. "Sam?"
He shakes his head to clear it, raising the phone back to his ear. He can't afford to lose it right now, later yes, but not right now. And damn if that inner voice doesn't sound a heck of a lot like Callen. I need your a-game right now, Big Guy. "Go ahead, Eric."
"We found a cure."
The phone slips from numb fingers and clatters across the floor. He knew it couldn't be over that easily, knew this couldn't be the end of a friendship, of a brotherhood, that's been built quite literally out of blood, sweat, and tears. This is not the end. And now his inner voice is starting to sound remarkably like Hetty. He'll be worried about that later.
For now, he pulls his wits together and reaches for the phone he's dropped. Except it really is Hetty's voice now, and he finds it grounding in a way but also a tinge irritating because either she's developed phenomenal foresight or she's been keeping things from them again. "You knew about this."
It's an accusation, a how could you? Because he's been thinking that his partner's as good as dead for seven hours and thirty-nine minutes and she never once thought it would be a good idea to bring it up before now. Except he doesn't have time right now for her evasiveness, doesn't have time to listen to her answers and guess how much is the truth because there's still a ticking clock and it's not going to wait for him. "How, Eric?"
"Blanchard told the Irish militia about the bio weapon. What he didn't tell them was that Gamma-Grade already had a cure in the works. We just got done talking with the CEO of Gamma-Grade Pharmaceuticals. The cure is being flown to CDC headquarters as we speak."
Eric's a little breathless by the end of his explanation, but that's nothing compared to Sam himself. There's a fireburning in his gut and a giddiness that's making his head spin because there's a cure and Callen's still holding on which means there's still time, still hope. Keep hope alive.
"Good work, Eric." He pockets the phone and turns in search of his partner because, come hell or high water, he's not leaving him again.