A/N: I am stunned. Just...stunned. THANK YOU, all of you, for the phenomenal response you all gave me. The last chapter gained twelve story alerts/favorites from Nina.4444, montydam, DS2010, Annabeth, sushi97, SunnyCitrus10, AMomentOfClarity, lizard1969, zoebrenn, rynni is happy, dancingqueensillystring, and Sagittarius-Arrow98, as well as eight reviews from Haleybug52, Nina.4444, DS2010, DizzyDrea, SunnyCitrus10, zoebrenn, TwilightPony21, and idiot9and602.

I apologize for this chapter being late - the Document Manager was acting up earlier. Still, considering I wasn't sure I'd even be able to post at all, this is pretty good, isn't it?

Enough talk. Now, let's catch up with Sam and see what he's been up to in the past seven years.

Chapter Three: Breakdown

I stifle a yawn as I wait to be shown into Sam's office. It's been fifteen minutes since his secretary left to inform him of my arrival, and until that moment, I wasn't fully aware of just how high Sam had climbed in the bureaucratic world. Clearly, he's some big administrative hotshot now, with his own fancy office and personal assistant.

I bet he hated it.

Okay, so maybe not exactly hate – but I'm pretty sure he isn't exulting in his new position, either. Sam's a man of action. He's been in the Navy since he was twenty-one, joined the SEALs when he was twenty-five, transferred to NCIS at thirty-seven…

Wow. I never knew I knew so much about Sam. Then again, we did work together for over four years – and he was always the least secretive about his past, except for Eric and Nell.

Quick footsteps draw my attention, and I look up, craning my neck to see Sam. He's clearly not making any attempt whatsoever to be stealthy; I was fairly certain he'd be out of his office like a shot once his secretary told him that "Kensi Blye is waiting outside".

But I am totally unprepared for just how little Sam has changed. I should have expected it, I know – especially after seeing Eric and Nell – but I swear, the man hasn't changed at all. Not even one tiny bit.

Though Sam's around fifty by now, he doesn't look a day older than thirty-five. I mean, he still looks exactly the same. His head is still shiny and bald, he doesn't have any wrinkles, he's still as muscular as ever…

He must be taking damn good care of himself to look so young. Either that or he's found some magical eternal youth serum somewhere.

It's comfortingly familiar, and at the same time, painfully reminiscent. Right now, more than ever, I feel myself being transported back in time. It's worse – or better? – this time, because I actually catch myself thinking that the walls of this building look awfully like the old hacienda, and for a moment, I believe Callen's going to come traipsing through the door, tossing some teasing comment to Sam about the way he's rushing towards me.

"Kensi…" Sam says softly as he reaches me, like he can't believe it.

With that, reality kicks in and I realize that Callen is not going to walk in, not now, not ever. It's like a fall from the top of the world, and fall I do – from hope, from belief, from happiness…I hit the proverbial ground with such force I actually gasp, and I'm surprised to find tears in my eyes.

"Kensi?" Sam's concerned now; I'm sure he's noticed the tears.

Damn him. Damn him and his incredibly youthful looks. Why is this happening to me?

"Hi, Sam," I say, attempting to smile. He just looks at me anxiously, and I can feel my fragile composure slipping. I was aiming for teasing and light-hearted – and, obviously, I failed miserably.

I can tell from his eyes – those inscrutably, inexplicably young eyes – that he's dying to pepper me with questions about where I've been, what I've been doing – and most importantly, what I'm doing here – but his brotherly concern wins out over his curiosity and he inquires gently, "Kensi, are you okay?"

I shake my head and whisper, "No."

It's too much – his caring tone pulls me right back to when Callen was still alive, to when we'd be making jokes around the bullpen or playing a prank on Deeks – and whatever's left of my self-control cracks monumentally. I know I have about a second or two before I break down right here, but I can't speak, and so my eyes are the only thing I have to communicate with my big brother – to tell him to please, please get me out of here before I lose it and cry in front of everyone.

To my enormous relief, he understands, and he quickly takes me under his wing. "Come on," he says gently. "My office is this way."

Somehow, I'm able to keep it together – to hold the shattered pieces of my composure in place long enough to reach the blessed safety of his office. Once he closes the door, however, I can't do it anymore; the pieces pull out and fly apart – violently.

Sam scoops me into his arms as I cry my eyes out, saying nothing, simply holding me as he waits for my sobs to subside.

It takes a solid ten minutes before I stop crying. Ten minutes! It's shameful. Kensi Blye is a hardened undercover agent. Kensi Blye has dealt with loss calmly and with dignity. Kensi Blye does not cry for ten minutes straight just because a friend reminds her of something that happened seven years ago.

In fact, while we're on the subject, Kensi Blye does not cry for ten minutes straight for any reason.

And yet…I did.

I blame jet lag for this, though. I mean, I was barely in L.A. six hours before I hopped onto another plane for a five-hour flight to D.C., and it's not like I got any sleep. I say as much to Sam, offering both an apology and an excuse for breaking down in his arms.

"Okay, Kensi," he agrees. I'm pretty certain he doesn't believe me, but he's wise enough to let it drop. We've only just met again after seven years, after all, and it's impolite to push a topic I so obviously don't want to talk about.

"I'm sorry, Sam," I tell him. "It's just been a long day." Actually, it's been a long seven years – an endless, excruciating night that doesn't look like the sun's going to come out anytime soon – but I'm not about to tell him that. I don't need him thinking I'm unstable just minutes before I ask him for a huge favor. I mean, he walked away from NCIS for a reason. And it was a damn good one too. So instead, I take a deep breath and manage a genuine smile. "It's good to see you, Sam."

He smiles back and pulls me into another hug – a hug of camaraderie instead of comfort. "It's good to see you too, Kenz." Unwittingly, he's slipped into calling me Callen's nickname – I don't know why, but maybe it's because it's been years since we saw each other, and he wants to reestablish the old rapport we had. Or, maybe the sight of me brings back the memory of all things Callen, just as he does for me.

Either way, I freeze. If it were any other person, I would've lashed out, and possibly caused him bodily harm – but this was Sam, my big brother, who's merely trying to catch up with me, so I sigh and gently reprimand, "Don't call me that, Sam."

He's confused. He wants to know why I won't let him – why I won't let anyone call me that.

"You let Callen call you that," he points out.

Oh, this just keeps getting better and better. It appears everyone's moved on very well from losing Callen – everyone but me. But I explain delicately, "Exactly."

And that one little word is all it takes for him to understand. That single word is enough to let him know that 'Kenz' was Callen's, and when he left, he took her with him. 'Kenz' died with Callen, because Callen was the one who birthed her in the first place. 'Kenz' is gone for good, just like Callen.

It's truly remarkable that just one word can convey this all perfectly to Sam.

"Oh," he says. "I'm sorry, Kensi."

"That's okay," I forgive him. "Listen, I'm here 'cause I need a favor."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "What do you need?"

"Well, actually, the team needs a favor," I amend.

Now his eyebrows meet each other in a frown. "The team?" he questions.

"Yeah," I say. Then, in a rush – because I'm not quite sure how he'll react: "LAPD got Jenson."

A hiss escapes Sam's lips, and I can see he hasn't moved on as well as I initially thought he did. I'm not surprised, however – in fact, I'm willing to bet good money that everyone involved in this who thought they'd moved on will now find that they haven't. Personal cases from the past can do that to you.

"Vance?" Sam guesses. I nod in confirmation.

"Jenson gave up the person who did it."

At this, he sucks in a sharp breath, much like Nell did. "Who?" he demands.

"A guy named Jason Baxter."

Sam's eyes have hardened; they look like coal. "Do we have him?"

Regretfully, I inform him, "Unfortunately, no. That's our case. We need to find him."

Sam looks thoughtful.

"One last case, Sam," I persuade him. "One last case with NCIS, and then we can walk away – for good this time. Sam," I add pleadingly, "it's for Callen."

He shakes his head. "I don't need convincing, Kensi. You had me at Jenson." His eyes have softened a bit, but his face is determined. "Let's go get this guy."

A/N: Five down, one more to go. Who's that one? The irreplaceable Hetty Lange, of course!