Allies by WickedBlue

Warnings: h/c, swear words, torture, irate blonds and mean bad boys

Summary: NCIS Los Angeles – The Magnificent Seven ATF AU crossover: Callen's past as an undercover agent gets him into trouble.

Many thanks to my wonderful beta achillies-eel.

skippy1967: Your reviews always make my day. :-). This fic is my baby and I will definitely publish the entire story, even if it is just for you and me :-).

Chapter 4

Chris Larabee hardly got any sleep that night; his mind was working too hard on finding a way out of this predicament. Every now and then he checked on the other man. Even though he hated him, he didn't want him dead, and Chris was having trouble holding onto that hate after having seen the pain Darkov was in.

Just as he was checking on Darkov again, he noticed the other man slowly waking up. He felt hot to the touch, and it took him a while to focus his gaze on Chris. Definitely getting an infection, Chris concluded, after having a look at his injured back. And he probably had a concussion, too, something Chris wasn't feeling particularly bad about. But they really had to get out of there.

Before he could say something to the other man, the door opened and Mayfield came in. "Oh good, you are both still alive," he commented after taking in their condition.

"Now, Allen," he said, after turning to Callen, "we should probably have a little talk, don't you think?" Not waiting for the reply that wouldn't come anyway, he motioned to some of his men. "Help him up; I want to look into his eyes when I talk to him," he ordered.

"Now, Allen," he began again once Callen was standing in front of him, supported by the two men. "Why would the good Agent here think that your name is not Allen Collins, but Alexander Darkov?"

Callen forced himself to concentrate. He had to get them out of here, somehow, before Mayfield got too suspicious and just killed them.

"Agent Larabee is right," he admitted, brushing off the 'helping hands' of Mayfield's men. "My name used to be Alexander Darkov, and I used to work for the Russian mob in Kiev. I had to take on another name so as not to be found by the feds."

Taking a step closer to Mayfield, his voice took on a pleading tone. "You have to believe me, John, I didn't know that he was following me. I would never have…" Here he stumbled. His last strength abandoning him, he fell half onto Mayfield, dropping to the ground in front of the man.

Mayfield watched this with total indifference. "We will see," he said evenly, before turning around and leaving the room, the door falling shut behind him. Shortly after, they could hear a car starting; then there was only silence in the building above them.

Chris Larabee had watched the byplay with a derogatory expression on his face. He had to be careful with Darkov. The bastard would probably sell out his grand mother if he thought it would help. Looking at him, still lying helplessly on the ground, he cursed himself for being so soft. He crouched down next to the man, trying to figure out how bad his condition was.

Darkov lay on his injured back, his face a grimace of pain. "Darkov, hey, are you with me?" Chris asked, trying to reach the injured man.

When Darkov actually opened his eyes, Chris was surprised by the intensity in them.

"Call me Collins, if you have to. But stop calling me Darkov, will you, Larabee? Darkov has been dead and buried for more then ten years now," he growled at Chris.

"Shit!" he cursed a moment later, pain clouding his voice as he tried to roll onto his side.

Chris didn't even think when he bent down to help the man, surprised by this totally different attitude. This was more like the guy he had fought with in the restaurant, who had tenaciously fought back when other men would have already given up.

Soon after, Darkov fell into an uneasy sleep, only to wake up, startled, some time later, when Chris crouched down next to him to check on him.

"How long have I been out?" Darkov asked, looking at Chris wearily.

"About an hour," he replied evenly.

"Shit!" the man exclaimed, trying to get up.

"Hey, what do you think you are doing?" Chris snapped, stopping him halfway.

Callen looked at him angrily, loosing patience with the hate-filled agent. "I'm trying to get us out of here, what do you think?" He snapped back, panting from the exertion.

"This is stupid," Chris hissed back at him. "You can hardly stand; how exactly do you intend for us to get out of here? You might not have noticed, but we're locked in a basement without any windows, the air vents are just big enough for the rats, and I haven't seen any secret hidden doors."

"Magic," Callen deadpanned, effectively stopping the other man's tirade. "Well, that or we just use the key," he continued calmly, discretely pulling a set of keys out of his pocket.

"Where did you get those?" the blond snarled in angry surprise.

"Magic, as I …" Here Callen was roughly interrupted by a furious Chris Larabee pulling him up and shoving him against the wall. All the air went out of him and the pain that welled up in his back at the sudden impact nearly made him pass out.

When the blackness receded, he could hear the other agent yelling at him, "-is your plan? Is this a trap, you bastard?"

His face was now so close that they were nearly touching. Larabee's left hand held a crushing grip on his neck, making it hard to breathe, and his right elbow dug into his chest, pressing him hard against the wall.

"This is not a trap, Larabee," Callen panted through the pain, trying to pacify the irate man.

"Oh, yeah? Then where did you get the keys from?" the blond hissed at him quietly, aware that they might be watched.

"I pick-pocketed them from Mayfield," Callen admitted simply. Chris looked at him with disdain in his eyes

"Oh yeah, that figures; a killer, a liar, and a pick-pocket," He stated flatly.

"We do what we have to to survive," Callen replied evenly, an undertone in his voice that made the other man stop his attack and look hard into his eyes. Words somehow failing him, Chris shook his head and took a step back, taking his hands off the other man.

As soon as the hands that had been holding him up were gone, Callen's legs gave out under him, and he sank to the ground. Before he could ready himself for another hard impact, he was caught by two strong hands.

"Sorry," Chris said quietly, not knowing exactly why he was apologizing – for getting them into this situation, for treating the other man like shit, for causing him even more pain. This was not something he wanted to analyze any closer at the moment, Chris decided as he helped the injured man up.

His musings were stopped short when Darkov looked at him with a slight grin on his face.

"Don't… apologize. It's a …sign… of… weakness," he managed to say before his eyes rolled back and he sank into Chris's arms.

Chris knew that Darkov - ok, maybe Collins - needed some time to get his strength back, but they didn't have that time. They had to leave now before Mayfield noticed the missing keys, and he and his goons came back.

"Come on, now isn't the time to sleep," he muttered, trying to rouse the other man.

When Darkov finally opened his eyes, Chris took a deep, relieved breath. There was no way he could leave the other man behind, even though he would slow him down and might stab him as soon as he turned his back. But Chris wasn't that much of an asshole, even if there were a lot of people - and not only perps - who would swear the opposite. Mayfield would sure as hell kill the man if he found him here after Chris was gone. And he didn't want Dar-Collins's death on his conscience, murdering bastard or not.

"We need to leave," Chris said finally, and pulled the other man up.

~ End of Chapter 4 ~

A/N: This fic is complete, but it is still being edited. I will upload the next chapters as soon as possible.

Love it? Hate it? Would love to hear what you think.