Aloha, Namaste, Salaam, Ladies and Gentlemen! Here we are, our first update of 2014! Happy New Year to you all. Hopefully, this is the first of many more quick updates. Again all my thinks to Melbelle310, check out her excellent writing.

When I walked in the door, I'd planned to whine to Hank for a while, drink some Bourbon, and then drive to Kensi's to fall asleep parked in her driveway. Instead, I find myself drinking with my boss, listening to him tell stories about his past. I should've known that he'd set me up. He probably already knows just what this place means to me, but this is a test. He trusted me enough to give something of himself, and now I have to prove that I trust him as well. I'm just glad this isn't an interrogation room. He would eat me for lunch, but I'm not a guy that goes down without a fight, and he knows we're both men that make people work to see who we really are.

"This place is practically my second home and school room," I say with the brightest, most carefree tone I can possibly force my voice into. "I've been coming here since second grade."

Callen drinks a swig of the water in front of him. "Its tough work when you have to drag them home falling down drunk avoiding the swinging fists," he says as casually as if we were talking about the weather. He stares at me for a moment. "It must have been harder for you. You were a tall kid. When I had to drag my dirt bag Foster Father home, I could duck easily because I was short until I turned fourteen."

This is why he's the best there is at making people talk. Okay, Hetty has more experience, and she is much scarier, but Callen's got a gift for targeting the hurt child inside a person. As Eric would say, 'Resistance is futile,' but at least I can comfort myself knowing I tried. "You're still short!" I snap with a bit of acid on my tongue. "Yeah I dragged my sire home just about every night for years before I shot him."

I never talk about it, shooting 'the animal.' I don't regret I did it, but I've never been able to figure out how anyone can just talk about something like that. Callen leans back in his seat looking completely relaxed, and frankly, it freaks me out. "Why do you still come here?" he asks.

I hope he's not expecting a complicated answer, because there isn't one. "This is where I'm from. Without this place I wouldn't be who I am now. I like Marty Deeks. Coming here helps me keep things in perspective. I need that tonight."

"Seeing your partner hurt always throws things out of whack," Callen says softly. Then, those electric blue eyes pierce mine, stopping the smart-mouth retort on the tip of my tongue. "It wasn't your fault Kensi got grazed today. The bullet ricocheted off the beam, it happens. You took out Cozet and protected your partner."

I open another bottle of water, hoping that it will kill the rest of the buzz. I've been keeping my eyes on the small group of newcomers on my turf. I don't like the looks of them. They're bikers, but not one of the major clubs here in LA. I make a mental note to call Matt in the morning and get him to use his connections in the gang unit to see if there are any small clubs looking to build territory. My thoughts turn back to the terror I felt seeing Kensi's blood staining the sexy white tank top she wears to screw with me.

"I miss being on my own sometimes," I confess. The words taste bitter in my mouth, and they sound so ungrateful. "I know what happened today isn't my fault. I know I can't stop stray bullets. I can't stop any of the other millions of things that can kill us on the job. When I'm on my own, I can handle it fine. Now, I'm not only responsible for doing the job, but Kensi depends on me to be there. She doesn't even think about it anymore. To her, it's just a fact, the same as the sky is blue. Even when she doesn't want me there she still expects me to be there so she can tell me to go away. How am I supposed to accept the fact that the day might come when it won't make a difference? I never had to before!"

"I can't answer that for you, Marty." I jump a little when he uses my given name. It sounds weird to hear him use it. His lips quirk up a little and he continues. "I can tell you how I live with it, but in the end you have to find your own way."

I cross my arms over my chest. I'm not sure why I feel the need to protect myself. "I'm listening."

He shrugs and puts his hand behind his head, pretending to stretch out his back, as he observes the increasingly loud biker group. "I tell myself that Sam can slip in the shower, he can get in a car accident, he can get sick, he can get killed if he's in Sudan or Somalia. I keep reminding myself that all I can do is what I can do."

I glance at Hank to see if there's trouble. So far, he looks irritated but calm. We have time. "Does it really work?" I ask.

I feel the hairs on my neck standing up when Callen grins. It's the same grin I've seen him wear when he's got a suspect, and he's about to nail them while they think he's on their side. "We'll be partners officially five years in a few weeks. In that time I've taken two bullets meant for him, three knife wounds, a half dozen broken ribs, thirty-six concussions, countless scrapes and bruises, one broken knee, and if I break my collar bone one more time I'll need to get screws. It's all for my partner."

The enormity of what Callen puts himself through to protect the people he cares about shouldn't surprise me. I helped him tear through the European underworld, leaving a river of blood, for Hetty, but it's still overwhelming when I hear him admit it. "Everyone says you're reckless and accident prone," I whisper. "Even Kensi thinks you're crazy."

"Who says I'm not?" he quips, his eyes shining with laughter. "Look, I've never expected to live long. There was a time making my eighteenth birthday seemed like a pipe-dream. Then, I figured it was a long-shot if I made thirty. I turned thirty-five in a daze, forty… I got scared; technically it's all supposed to be downhill from there. Now, I'm forty-one, and while that fact still surprises me at times one thing has never changed... I decided at seven years old that when I die, I'll die on my terms. I won't lie down and give up. My death will accomplish something. Whether I die protecting my country or protecting my partner doesn't matter to me."

I start shifting in my chair; this is way too strange for me. Shouldn't Sam be the one hearing all of this? Maybe he has. If not Sam, then Hetty would be the logical choice for Callen to share all of this with. "So basically, you over-compensate. No matter how often you tell yourself you're not in control you know you can't accept it. You can only do everything you possibly can to be able to live with it."

Callen smirks and leans across the table closer to me. "Give yourself sixty-four thousand dollars," he winks at me and then quickly turns serious. "Sometimes I miss having nothing to lose too."

I look around and see the results of believing there is nothing to lose. "That's why I keep coming here. I have to remind myself that having nothing to lose might be easier, but it's worse than death."

He nods. "I'll have to remember that one."

I smile. "Hank always said my coming here taught him that."

"Now that's a story I've got to hear."

Quid Pro Quo appears to be Callen's Modus Operandi tonight. I blame Law School whenever I start thinking in Latin. My biggest secret isn't my screwed up childhood, it's the fact that I'm a major nerd. Truly, there are times when I am so tempted to just sit with Eric and Nell and start our own "brainy kids" table at lunch. There's a difference between nerds and geeks. Although I can hold my own well enough in the geek department, I am a true nerd. I learned to speak, read, and write Latin just for Law School. God help me if Kensi and Sam ever get a look at my bookshelves.

I try to grin at my companion. The story he's asking for isn't particularly pretty, and it's as hard to hear as it is to tell. "I suppose it wouldn't be fair of me to refuse…" I trail off, as I feel butterflies start up a hurricane in my stomach.

"Take your time," he replies.

"Well, Hank had some real issues back in the day." I turn my head and watch him wipe down the bar while cutting old Shorty off for the night. I marvel at the man I see now compared to the man I knew then. "He told me that you figured out what he once was," I add.

He shrugs. "It's easy to recognize when you've done the same."

I feel my blood run cold at those words. I told Kensi once that I knew exactly how dangerous Sam and Callen were, but Sam is strictly on the respectable side of the coin. From what little I've gleaned from Hank over the years, I've learned that there's an entire world where there are no heroes for God and Country. In that world, humanity is a weakness, and atrocities are carried out by men who are never sure if the greater good they're trying to preserve really exists. It broke Hank, and I can't help feeling a pang of dread at the thought of Callen breaking like that someday. Romania offered a small glimpse into just how far he can slip into that darkness. As I sit here, I find myself wanting to protect him from that. It's ridiculous, I know, but he's survived so much just on willpower, and no man can endure indefinitely. We all break eventually. I think I understand now why he's always been convinced that he'll die young. Death is better than falling into the abyss.

"Hank's the reason I never wanted to join the military," I blurt out, and feel my face go hot with embarrassment. This whole evening has been like some sort of Twilight Zone episode.

Callen smiles. He probably thought I'm incapable of being embarrassed. "It's not for everyone, Marty."

I wish he'd lay off calling me Marty. It's so creepy, but I put it out of my mind and give the man the story he's asking for. "When I was a kid, Hank lived in the chair you're sitting in. I guess he was homeless; I'm not really sure. He had stringy hair down his back and a scary grizzly beard, and he showered and washed his clothes maybe once every two weeks. The entire neighborhood was terrified of him. My sperm donor, who would pick a fight with Mohammad Ali and probably kill him if he was drunk enough, never ever started trouble with Hank. One day, when the old man was actually sober, I asked him why. He told me that Hank had been a POW, he was crazy, and he killed more easily then he drank. He also told me that if I was smart, I'd leave him alone."

"Were you smart?"

I shrug. "I guess I was still young enough that whatever Brandel told me when he was sober meant something. I started hauling him home soon after that. That's when Hank began to piss me off. Here I was, a seven year old kid, hauling that worthless piece of crap home every night. I'd come in with bruises, cuts, burns, a broken nose, a fractured jaw, and only God remembers what else. Here's this guy who, according to everyone at school and the few decent people I knew from my mother, had protected his country and deserved my respect. I can sum up my thoughts on that idea with one word… BULL!"

I feel myself tense up with my final words. Callen may be cool about my civilian status, but I heard the pride and gratitude in his voice when he told me about his time in the Navy. It saved his life. I know Kensi and Sam would be ready to murder me about now. They'd give me lectures on the horrors of war and PTSD and generally make me feel like scum. I hope Callen understands I mean no disrespect.

"I hope you kept that to yourself," he replies. Then looks over at Hank, and frowns.

I follow his gaze and notice the newcomers are getting louder. Unless I miss my guess, we've only got about ten minutes before the trouble starts. "It made no sense to me that I had to respect a man who couldn't be bothered to protect me now, when he'd protected people that he'd never know. I think I hated him more than anyone in my life for a long time. I certainly never believed in the whole honorable soldier idea. There's nothing honorable about sitting in a dark corner drinking yourself to death while a little kid suffers."

I stare at a point on the wall above Callen's head. I wish the bikers would just make their move so I can take care of it and go to Kensi's. I don't want to talk about this anymore. Callen moves his hand suddenly, forcing me to focus back on his face. My gut clenches, and I'm reminded that the man doesn't miss a thing. 'Jackass,' my traitorous mind whispers.

"You can say it out loud if it makes you feel better," he teases.

"Don't tempt me," I warn, but the awkwardness disappears.

"So what changed?" he asks. "I've watched you two together, and it's obvious that you love each other like family."

I have to force myself not to take another drink. I'll need all of my wits soon, so I take a deep breath and finish my story. "After I shot the 'the animal,' they had me in an interrogation room down at the station. I wasn't being charged. They thought it was the safest place to stash an eleven year old kid at two in the morning. I'm sitting there, trying to get some sleep, when a man walks in. He's tall, clean shaven, short hair, and wearing a second-hand suit that fit pretty good. I had no clue who he was, so I asked him if he was the social worker."

Callen grins. "Let me guess, it was Hank."

I nod. "I nearly fell out of the chair when he told me. He looked like a completely different person. For some reason I still don't know, I got up and punched him in the gut with all the strength I had left. I just kept swinging until I went slack, and he put his arms around me, and then I just started bawling."

I pause, wishing this lump in my throat would disappear. I've done a pretty good job of not letting the past define my life, but at times the pain still lingers. Callen just sits quietly waiting for me to continue when we hear a glass shattering on the floor…

"You stupid, clumsy, slut!" the supposed 'leader' of the little group of bikers shouts at his girl. I can't tell how old she is underneath the caked-on cheap makeup and masses of badly permed hair. She doesn't react to the insult, and one of the others asks Hank to pour him another beer which he gives to the girl.

I turn back to Callen, knowing that Hank doesn't want me to interfere until he gives me the signal. "Anyway- he told me that he'd come to the station because he'd heard what happened and wanted to tell the cops what he knew."

I see a hard coldness seep into his eyes. "If I were you I would've said, 'too little too late.'

I grin because nobody except Hetty would believe how alike we can be. "I did. He asked me to let him explain why he didn't help me. I think I only let him because he talked to me as if I was a grown man. He looked me straight in the eyes; he didn't ask for my forgiveness; he admitted that what he wanted to tell me wouldn't make his actions right. All he wanted was the opportunity for him to tell his side of the story. What I did with the information was up to me. I guess despite my anger and contempt, I couldn't deny him that chance. I wanted to see if he had ever been a man worthy of respect."

Callen nods in understanding. "I can understand that. Curiosity is a powerful motivator."

"He told me he would have killed Brandel if he had tried to help me. My response went something like, 'you were a soldier. Killing bad people is what you do. Why did I have to shoot him if it's your job to protect people like me?' That was the first time I'd ever seen him smile."

"It's a great question."

I grin. "He thought so. At the time it was hard to understand, but he did his best to help me see that if he'd killed him he might have killed the next guy that pissed him off. Between the booze, and all of the mental problems that he used the drink to dull, he couldn't take the risk. Eventually he'd end up in prison, and he couldn't go through that again."

I watch Callen turn to look at Hank by the bar. The cold bitterness that had seeped into his eyes during my story drains away. The crowd there quiets down like the calm before a storm. He turns back to me and starts speaking in his 'scary quiet voice.' "It gets to be automatic after a while. You see a threat, you neutralize the threat. There's no thinking, just the act. Go for the kill. The concept of a live prisoner disappears. It takes a strong man to be able to stop."

The words send icy electrical sparks down my spine. I pray I never know everything this man has done in his life. I don't think I could stomach it. Another rush of cold hits me as I realize that 'shoot to kill' is becoming an automatic reflex for me, too. As a cop, we try not to kill our suspects. The world I'm a part of now rarely has that luxury. It's another reason why I don't want to sign those papers and leave the LAPD. I relish the knowledge that I can fall back on the rules and procedures of dealing with common low-lifes.

I look at the clock on the back wall. It's only 2200, (when did I default to using ZULU time) so Kensi hasn't mellowed out enough to let me in. She'll need at least another hour in her tub. Since she refused to take the pain meds the doctor gave her, she's probably finishing the bottle of Cabernet I got her last month. I'll get to her house around midnight; by that time she'll be too tired to argue with me. Frankly, I think she ought to be grateful that I didn't strap her down in the hospital bed when they wanted to keep her overnight, but if she expressed any gratitude I'd have to rush her back to be checked for a head injury.

The noise from the bar picks up again. I wait for Hank's signal, but he's feeling charitable tonight. "How do you feel about bar fights, Callen?" I only ask to confirm I have backup.

He grins and stares at the men. "Usually if I'm in one, Hetty is with me. It's the two of us against the four of them. I almost feel bad. It's hardly fair odds."

I shake my head. "It's two against five. Once we raise our fists, the girl will jump in. She's not the type who wants out of this life."

"Will Hank be able to handle her?"

I have to hand it to the guy. Considering his deplorable lack of a social life, he's tactful enough not to add, 'without killing her' to the question. "Yeah, he's doing okay," Hank might kill the guys, but not a woman.

Callen leans back in his seat and puts his feet on the table. "So how long have you been the unofficial Bouncer?" he asks.

"Since I was sixteen," I reply. Suddenly, the girl cries out in pain and the room goes silent. I hear Hank whistle "Zip-A-Dee-Do-Da," and my blood starts humming with adrenaline. "That's our signal."

I almost shudder at the feral smile on Callen's lips. "Game on!" he growls.