Author's Note: Well, anyone with any propensity for slash who has seen NCIS: LA knows that it should really just be called the Sam and Callen show. Though, anyone with a true love of slash probably finds this fact to be incredibly AWESOME. So, I humbly put forth my effort in helping pop the Callen/Sam fanfiction cherry by offering this rather sweet, angsty Sam POV.
This story is also the prequel to 'The Words That Betray You,' which is a multi-chapter Sam/Callen fic.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are not mine- they belong to the lovely people that made NCIS and it's new spin-off, NCIS: LA. Also, this story is SLASH. That means it deals with male/male homosexual feelings, so please don't be surprised by this fact.
Thank you, enjoy, and please review!
It's hard, knowing every day might be my last.
It's even harder knowing it might be his.
I've always known the only easy day was yesterday- it's been my motto for over a decade- but it's taken on a new meaning over the past few months. No matter the case, or the victim or even if we get the perp; it's a damn good day if I make it through without having to watch my partner bleed out in my arms, begging him to hang on because the ambulance is on the way.
At first I hated myself for it, and sometimes I guess I still do. There's no denying my priorities are fucked now. We had a little girl missing, a week or two ago, and I was ready to wait another hour for the back up team just to keep him from going in there with only me to keep him safe. A full god-damned hour of a little girl's life, possibly the difference between finding her dead or alive, just to keep one of the most capable field agents I've ever known from doing what he does best; risking it all on a chance.
I still try to convince myself he doesn't know, but sometimes the effort is so useless I can't help but laugh. He's always been observant, it's what keeps him alive. If he can read a perp's intentions in his eyes, what the hell makes me think he hasn't noticed it's always his name I call first after shots are fired, and that a few times my voice damn-near breaks doing it?
He hasn't said anything, though. At least, not yet, and I pray every damn day that he doesn't. I've always been protective, always cared about the team more than myself, and I think he probably just writes off my new quirks as PTSD after that shooting last spring. After all, who wouldn't be a little shaken up after watching their teammate take a lead storm- even if he did come out fighting? Of course, it doesn't help any when that teammate is also your best friend. I know that seeing him alive and back out in the field should probably ease the ache a little bit, but nothing is ever going to get that day out of my head. Nothing is ever going to make me forget what his blood felt like on my hands, or the way he looked at me when he thought I was the last living thing he was ever going to see.
I like to try to convince myself I'm never going to tell him. I've never been one for confessions; not when the shit hits the fan, not when the bullets fly and not when I'm too fucked up to stand straight. It doesn't matter. I'm still a SEAL, damnit, and SEALs don't talk about that shit, especially not with their teammates. I know it's not the same, I know he's not a SEAL, but the bond isn't any different with my new team than it was back when my job was in the water and there's no way in hell I'd betray that trust. Our brotherhood was forged in fire, too. Fire and blood and sweat and you don't throw that kind of trust away just because you have some feelings. Feelings are the kind of thing you share at home, safe in bed with a woman. In the field, you show your feelings by keeping the people you care about alive, so that's what I do.
No matter how much I tell myself that, though, I know that if another day comes when G is choking on his own blood in my arms and painting the pavement red that the words are going to fall out and there's nothing I'll be able to do to stop them. Not from some need for him to reciprocate- he does that every time he makes sure I get home safe too. No, it'll be because the words have been in there too long, and sometimes words like that betray you. Sometimes, when you know it really is the last day, words you've tucked away and refused to even think find a way to break out, and there's nothing you can do.
So, sometimes I hope that my last day comes before his. I know it's a fucked up way to think, because if that happens the words might come out anyway and then he'll be the one that gets stuck dealing with them. Other times I hope it's him first, because even though it would rip me apart it's better than dieing wondering who will protect him once I'm gone. Neither option is great- maybe I'll get lucky and whatever drug dealer or psychopath or terrorist that finally takes him down will just get us both out of the way. Then there'd be no teary confessions- just two brothers, going out in the same fire that forged their partnership.
There's no way of knowing, though- there never is.
There's never any knowing which day might be his last.
Or which might be mine.