Salaam, Namaste, Bonjour, Ahn Nyeong Hah Seh Yo, and Good Afternoon, Ladies and Gents! Sorry for the delay. Microsoft is a bunch of... Never mind... Well, the guys have had a rough day and night thus far. Let's see if they survived. Hey, any K-drama fanatics out there? Let me know.

I help Deeks drag the riff-raff into a corner while Hank wraps the girl's wrist. I haven't been in a real bar fight in years. Most of my rough nights are strictly professional now. I have to say, I fared better than most men my age. My face will look like bad chopped meat in the morning; my lip is split, and gushing blood. I have the usual aches and pains that come with throwing thugs and being thrown around by thugs in a barroom brawl. Still, I'll privately admit to the satisfaction of thrashing some stupid kids twenty years younger than me. After turning forty, I stopped taking this stuff for granted. "What do you want to do with them, Deeks?" I ask as he lays out the last one.

"Well, Thing Three here needs the hospital for sure. He has a face and hands full of glass. The others are busted up enough to warrant ice-packs and stitches," he sighs, and cradles his side.

I feel myself frown at the gesture. Hetty will kill me if Deeks broke his ribs and he needs to come out of the field. I shudder to think of the reception I'll receive tomorrow morning when she sees my face. "Are your ribs broken?"

"Nah," he groans. "I won't be my normal Greek God self for a few weeks, but it's just bruises. Nothing my whirlpool can't fix."

"You have a whirlpool?" I exclaim. Strangely, I'm not surprised he has one so much as I'm shocked he hasn't bragged about it before.

"One day I'll invite you to a barbeque, and you can see the inside of my place," he pulls his phone from his pocket. "I've got a buddy who works in the local ER. If it isn't too busy tonight, he'll make sure we don't have to wait hours."

"We can haul these four in the back of my pick-up," Hank interjects as he finishes wrapping the girl's hand. "One of you boys will have to sit with them. If they wake up, they'll be trouble."

"I don't want to be a negative Nelly," Tammy interrupts, making the young girl snort. "How do you intend to load this pack of hyenas into the bed of the truck? Marty can barely stand straight, Mr. Cold Blue Eyes here can't see out of one of them, and you're too old to try and lift them all on your own, Hank."

"Tammy," Hank responds in a warning tone. Frankly, I think she's right. These guys aren't lightweights, and we will be feeling the effects of this tomorrow as it is.

"Okay," she sighs. "I'll sweep up the glass and then lock up, but don't say I didn't warn you."

She heads back to the storage room to get a broom, leaving us to figure out the logistics of the current operation. Hank pulls out his cell phone and hits his speed dial. "Hey, Artie, are the guys at your place tonight?" He's silent for a moment. "Great. Have Ben, Steve, and Lee stop by, would ya? Marty had to clean up some wannabe's, and we need to load them in the truck to get to the ER." He pauses again, and sighs. "He says just a couple bruised ribs, but you know him." Then, he laughs hard at something Artie says. "Exactly! I think the kid would walk through hell with his head in his arms if he thought he had to and not say a word." Another long pause, and the conversation wraps up. "Great, thanks, Artie." He turns to Deeks and smiles. "Reinforcements will arrive in ten minutes."

"I forgot about your fishing buddies," Deeks chuckles.

"My wrist is killing me," the girl cries. "Can't one of them drive me while you wait?"

"Sure," Hank replies with a smile that fails to conceal the sneer in his voice. "Which one of them would you like to get in the car with, the one whose ribs won't let him have full range of motion, or the one who's blind in one eye? Sweetheart, thus far you've showed remarkably poor judgment, don't add a complete lack of common sense to it." He takes out a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue out and pours a double.

The fact that there's a sixty year old bottle of Scotch in this dump makes me wonder if Hank has gone from heavy drinker to functional alcoholic. It's none of my business really, but I tend to get very protective of what's mine. Deeks is on my team, ergo, he's one of mine. He pours two more doubles and waves Deeks and me over. I gulp mine down, which is not something I'd ordinarily do with a drink that costs over forty bucks. Deeks follows suit, but the girl stares at us. "You do realize that they'll give us pain killers at the hospital right? What if we die because of the alcohol?"

Hank has apparently decided he's dealing with the girl, because he gives us two bottles of water and motions us away. While we sit at the other end of the bar, we hear him calmly, if not quite patiently, explain his reasoning to her. "It's a myth, missy, that one or two drinks will kill you with most of the commonly prescribed pain killers if you're in good health. Now, there are exceptions because some people are more sensitive to the effects of alcohol and medications, but by-and-large most of the warnings apply to stupid people who'll drink a six pack after taking too many pills. Do I recommend doing this for every day injuries? Of course not! But, it takes twenty minutes to get to the ER. Even if we go in on a dead night, it'll be another fifteen minutes at least. By the time they examine you, order the tests, and get you to the X-ray room, you'll wait some more. They examine the X-rays, order a consultation with the orthopedic resident, who then calls the surgeon on call. You wait for him to show up, and then they finally decide whether you need pins or not. That's hours from now if you're lucky! By that time, any alcohol is out of your system, and no chance of a reaction. Now, shut up and drink it!"

"You don't have to snap at me you know!" she grumbles.

"I'm an irritable old man, deal with it," he replies, filling the pitcher he's got her wrapped wrist in with fresh ice.

I look at Deeks watching Hank with the most unguarded expression I've ever seen on his face. He looks at me and shrugs. Either he doesn't need to hide this part of his life from me, or he doesn't have the energy. "Sorry that your quiet evening stalking me got wrecked."

I force myself not to smile for the sake of my split lip. "Not a problem, I figured you'd be spoiling for a fight since this afternoon."

"Was I that obvious?" he gulps. "You don't think Kensi knows do you?" he asks, looking almost as terrified as he did when he saw her bleeding.

"I think Kensi was too pissed off herself to notice. I'd buy her extra Twinkies tomorrow. She'll probably yell at you for not letting her take down Cozet."

He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. "You do know that there may come a time when I actually strangle her, right?"

I grin. He couldn't raise a finger to her, and we both know it. Kensi is the kind of woman who naturally drives guys like us up the proverbial wall. We can't help it; we have hyperactive protective instincts. It isn't that we think women weaker or inferior. Due to simple biology, the sexes are different. Now, the late 20th and 21st centuries tell us that biology shouldn't matter, and for the most part, guys like us totally agree. Most of us would readily admit that women have attributes far superior to us mere men. However, until I'm able to carry and birth child myself, I'll say Rule 44 applies. We men can spread our seed from puberty until death, barring any severe injury or health problem. No woman will ever be able to carry and nurture as many children as I could father if I chose. Again, this is simple biology. Logic dictates that you can afford to lose a large percentage of men and still avoid a major population crisis. Not so, with women. This fact is hardwired into DNA. Anyone with a half a brain will acknowledge it. Guys like Deeks and me have that natural instinct sharpened by environment. We can no more suppress it than we can stop breathing by choice. Women like Hetty and Kensi have our awe and constant fear. We want them to have power, but we hate seeing them in danger. Thankfully, they hate seeing us getting shot at just as much. I tend to think this makes it all even.

The door opens and we both jump up, not quite out of fighting-mode just yet. Three men walk in and Hank points them to the unconscious men we piled up in the back corner. None of them look strong, but I can tell that they're used to long hours moving heavy loads. Deeks mentioned something about fishing buddies, and I can well believe it. Mike Renko once told me about this tiny guy on a fishing boat he went out on for a case. He said the guy couldn't have weighed more than one hundred and ten pounds, but he pulled in a two hundred pound marlin using a rod and reel. These guys might look ordinary, but I've no doubt they'll have no problems hauling the others to the truck. "Boys, you know Marty, and this is a friend of his. Meet Mr. Callen," Hank introduces.

I nod; my lip is starting to hurt too much for small talk. They don't seem offended and nod back. Hank moves to help them carry the wounded, and I get out my wallet. As a rule, I don't use credit cards unless it's an emergency. I keep two hundred bucks in cash on me for the day-to-day stuff, and one blank check in case I ever need to make a huge payment. I figure that if the bar is closed too long Hank might lose too much income, and we did do most of the damage. I know what Deeks makes, and I'm also sure his nest egg doesn't cover this sort of thing. He's the practical type, plus he means to get his white picket fence one day. Unless I've finally become the emotional eunuch I'm often accused of being, and become blind to what's in front of me, Kensi will be the one building that fence.

Deeks' hand goes to his ribs, and he lets out a ragged breath. "I hate bruised ribs."

"Don't worry," I reply, moving my top lip as little as possible. "Tonight's Friday, I know the attending Physician in the ER tonight. I'm her favorite patient."

"Really!" He drawls, waggling his eyebrows. I should take a picture of it with my phone. He's as bruised as me, and it looks comical. Unfortunately, my evil streak doesn't include exposing this place that he's kept so private. A picture would prompt an explanation, and I'm sure if he wanted Kensi to know about it, she would. As for Sam, I have a feeling that Deeks won't be in the mood to bond until he feels Sam trusts him.

"She took five bullets out of me," I answer. "She's a trauma surgeon; she's the ER's attending on Fridays. Tell me, how much will the owner need to cover the damages?" I ask, laying the check out to fill in a number. "I think a grand should do it."

"The entire building isn't worth that much!" he answers. "Don't worry about it. Chad expects things like this to happen on a nightly basis. He won't expect payment, and Hank might kill you."

"Why might I kill your friend, Marty? That wouldn't be very nice of me," Hank asks, coming over to us.

"He wants to pay you for the damages," Deeks replies.

I see something like a smile appear on the older man's face, but his eyes are sharp. "You boys didn't break the mirror, and it's the only thing in here worth anything. Don't worry about it, I have extra chairs and tables. One empty tequila bottle doesn't cost anything, and no booze was lost. You're in the clear, but you need to settle your bill unless you want a tab."

I pull out a fifty dollar bill and set it on the bar. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm not interested."

"Fair enough, the truck is loaded. Let's get you two and missy there fixed up."

One of Hank's friends, I think his name is Ben (it feels like a spike is boring into my skull, so I haven't paid very close attention) offers to drive Deeks and me. Deeks declines, wanting to ride in the bed of the truck with the dirt bags. I've no desire to be jostled around right now, but I don't want to make a misstep in Deeks' territory. "Don't worry, Ben." Deeks replies softly.

"Okay, Marty. You know best."

"Let's go. Hank always parks out back."

We slowly make our way out, trying not to aggravate our cuts and bruises. Hank has a new Chevy Avalanche, quite an expensive ride for someone who tends bar in this place. I help Deeks climb into the bed of the truck while Hank puts the girl in the back seat. I'm afraid the shock will wear off and she'll turn on us. Now that the adrenaline has stopped pumping, pain has burst out of various places I'd rather not admit. It makes me favor my right side as I walk to the opposite passenger side door. "Hold up, Callen," Hank calls out to me. "Take the front; the seats are heated, and you need it."

I pause and try to see the girl's face through the tinted glass, but there's not enough light in the parking lot. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"She's young and stupid, but I think she's headed to her rock bottom. Let's go," Hank replies.

I shrug. If she jumps out, she jumps out. I learned early on that you can only help someone who wants help. As I sit in the front passenger seat, I bite down a moan of relief. Whoever got the idea to create a heated seat should've won a Nobel Prize. "Nice ride," I remark. I figure that I should try to be friendly; I don't want to give Deeks any reason to be embarrassed by me. I went through the same thing when I met Michelle.

"It does what I need it to do. Look, what's Marty into? He only told me that he's liaising for the LAPD with the Feds. He hasn't told me which Feds he's working for." I hear the worry and anger in his voice, and I'm glad that despite his horrific childhood, Deeks has a family outside the job.

"You know better than most people how important secrets can be," I reply, trying to reassure him without telling him anything.

"I also know how they can destroy a man!" he growls. "That kid is the only thing I have in this world. After seeing you two fight, I know you've been training him. I just want you to tell me that you're not with the G—" he trails off, and takes a deep breath. "Tell me he didn't go to Romania on the whim of the CIA."

"I promise that had *nothing* to do with the CIA. He went to Romania to help out a dear mutual friend. I won't lie and say he'll never meet anyone from Langley, but we take care of him. He's a part of my team now, and I'll do anything it takes to keep him as safe as I can."

"And why should I trust your word?" he asks in a low dangerous tone.

I lean back further into the seat in an irrational attempt to force my aching body to absorb more heat. In another ten years, I'll be too old for bar fights. "You don't have to trust my word, what's important is that Deeks does. I think that should be good enough."

A dangerous dark expression forms on his face. "We'll see," Hank mutters.