My very first NCIS:LA fic written in early season 1 when we didn't know the detail of Sam's personal life (his wife, kids, house, etc). I'm too lazy to change the detail *grins*, and to be honest it will change the tone of the fic as well. So I'll leave it as it is. Unbetaed.

Summary: Callen thought he knew exactly what a sick Sam needed. Sam begged to disagree, except that he actually agreed.

Disclaimer: Emm, nope, not mine.

CALLEN, MD

Sam Hanna nearly dropped the grape-flavored cough syrup bottle in his hand into the sink.

That can't be me, he thought, no way in hell.

He braced himself to take another look at the face in the mirror in front of him. Unhealthy complexion, red nose, watery eyes. In all, the face was miserable. The only thing that stopped him from screaming in despair was the absence of snot running from his nose. Thank God for little mercy.

I'm ugly, Sam concluded.

While his brain understood that people rarely looked good when they're sick, the fact was just too much for his heart to bear. Sam Hanna was never sick. Injured, maybe. But sick? Oh, no, Sir. That's not possible. Not even once, not since his SEAL days.

"I'm gonna kill that bastard," Sam muttered.

It all began with Hetty's cleaning up program to make the old files storage room look a little less like a dumpster. Despite their complain that the room was indeed a dumpster for decades old case files nobody cared about, Hetty – whose fondness for the agency's history was almost fanatical – had been persistent. There were times when the combined height and weight of Callen and Sam was just a mere lame comparison to Hetty's petite stature. This had been one of those times. Might as well as punishment for ruining another brand new wardrobe, Hetty added.

The tragedy started with a monstrous sneeze coming from Callen's nose. It was so loud that he dropped the boxes in his hands and spilled the contents, sending dust cloud everywhere which triggered a series of sneezing attack that kept on coming even after Hetty had banned him from the storage room. Callen argued that he's allergic to dust. Sam countered that Callen was allergic to cleaning up.

The following day, the sneeze had turned into full-blown flu. When Hetty sent him home, Callen simply dragged his duffle bag to the sofa on the corner and slept until Sam drove him home.

Two days later, as Callen's sneezing had passed, Sam started to feel a sniffle coming. While Callen's sickness had been limited to sneezing and runny nose, Sam experienced a whole range of stuffed nose, sore throat, headache, and fever. When he was sent home, he let Kensi drove him. Callen, feeling guilty because he was convinced that a pile of used tissue he left near the couch during his sneezing attack was the culprit of Sam's illness, had volunteered. Sam rejected because a car that Callen drove usually ended up in the junk yard before the end of the day. He'd rather crawl to his apartment than letting Callen drive his beloved Challenger.

So there he was two days later, in his bathroom, unable to look at his own face. He sighed dejectedly. He's still got plenty of time to kill Callen after he won the battle against this stupid flu.

Sam gulped the recommended dosage of the cough syrup and nearly threw up at the sickly sweet taste.

Grape-flavored my ass, he cursed inwardly before dragging his feet to the bed and promptly collapsed on top of the cover.

God, he felt and looked like shit.

He slowly drifted to sleep, secretly hoping he'd be able to beat up Callen's miserable being in his dream.

Sam startled awake at the sound of a big thump and muffled curses and quickly reached under his pillow for his gun, pointing it at the source of disturbance.

"Don't shoot!"

Any other day, day when his head wasn't so muddled, Sam would have quickly grabbed his cell phone and got himself a good blackmail picture.

Any other day, he would have laughed his ass off.

This particular day, he barked, "What the hell, G?" Of course it didn't deliver the expected reaction considering how raspy his voice was.

G. Callen, the agency lone wolf and undercover agent extraordinaire, had both his palms and right knee on the floor, supporting his weight. His other foot was still dangling from the window sill. Some paper bags laid forgotten in front him. His face was reflecting the same expression as that of deer-caught-in-the-headlight.

On second look, it was funny, Sam decided, hilariously funny.

Callen dragged his left foot and soon it joined the other on the floor. He gingerly picked himself up and smiled nervously. "Umm… Hi?"

"You climbed up my window and that's all you have to say?" Sam asked while putting his weapon in the drawer.

"Hey, it's hard to climb a window with your hands full, you know," Callen shot back. He picked up the paper bags and handed one of them to his sick partner.

Sam smiled at the content, soup and sandwich from his favorite deli. He took a large bite of the sandwich, realizing he barely ate anything since morning. His partner might be useful after all, he concluded.

"And these," Callen put the contents of the other bag on the bedside table, "are Callen M.D special delivery. I have menthol inhaler, herbal cough syrup, herbal fever remedy, herbal err… something…"

Sam interjected, "Are you trying to kill me? Do they even have FDA approval? It's like something from Chinese black market."

Callen's blue eyes wore a hurt look that sent a twinge to Sam's stomach.

Damn, he cursed himself, I've softened up.

Just when he thought of apologizing for doubting his partner's good intention, Callen said with a smug expression, "Actually, it's from Mexican black market."

"G!"

Callen quickly calmed his irritate friend. "Hetty's recommendation, I swear. Came from her own medicine cabinet." He poured some of the cough syrup into a spoon then brandished it to Sam. "Open your mouth."

"Like hell!"

"Do I need to make an airplane sound?"

"Are you crazy?"

"No, but I love you." Callen frowned, as if considering his answer. "Come to think of it, yeah, I'm crazy."

"Have you smelled that stuff? And it's green like swamp water."

There was nothing that could make Sam open his mouth and swallowed the concoction. Not even after Callen threatened to sit on top of him and pinch his nose shut. Only when Callen volunteered to call Hetty and let her do the honor did Sam, bitterly, open his mouth.

"You're a terrible nurse," Sam said begrudgingly, "You're supposed to be gentle. It's your virus I'm having."

"You can't blame me if my virus loves you more than me."

"Well, you're not exactly easy to love, G."

"I'll just pretend I didn't hear that."

"Suit yourself."

Callen dragged a chair to the side of the bed before plopping his butt down and raising his feet to rest on the edge of Sam's bed. He grabbed another paper bag from the deli and started munching on his burrito.

After a brief report about what's going on in the office, Callen finally gave away the juicy stuff that Sam was dying to hear. Eric miraculously scored a date with an LAPD cop. Kensi took Nate to Lakers game because her date had cancelled. Hetty had a dinner with who-know-who. As much as they wanted to look inside Hetty's date book, which they believe was filled with the names of world's finest gentlemen, distinguished politicians, and royal family members, the thought of their self-appointed "mother" having a date was too terrifying and somehow brought disturbing image. Then there were Sam and Callen, the most unlikely yet inseparable duo, spending yet another night together. Sam strongly disagreed, arguing that the nights he spent with Callen were out of pity for the blue-eyed agent who hadn't had a date in God knew how long.

"You make me seem like I'm pathetic," said an offended Callen.

"You are, G," Sam assured him. "When did the last time you had a date?"

"Sometimes what you need is the companion of a friend, not a girl."

"Ah."

"Uh-huh."

"Spoken like a true dateless wonder," Sam said triumphantly.

"It takes one to know one," Callen smartly replied,

"You're lucky I'm sick. I'm too tired to hit you."

"You're lucky you're sick. I don't hit sick people."

"I know you don't think highly of me, G. But you should be thankful having me as your partner. Any other guy would have thrown you from the nearest bridge."

"Well, you're the one who said I'm not easy to love."

"Which is exactly why it takes a special man to spend a day with you, let alone years."

Eyebrows raised, blue eyes twinkling with amusement, Callen said mischievously, "Are you, Special Agent Sam Hanna, saying that you're THAT special man?"

"G…"

"Are you saying that you love me?"

"G, don't even…"

Before Sam realized what's happening, Callen had grabbed his face and gave a not-so-gentle kiss on the cheek. The sauce from the burrito still held in Callen's hand left a smear on said cheek.

Recovering from his bewilderment and horror, Sam swiftly pushed Callen away. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Yeah, been hanging around you too much," Callen replied while quickly grabbed his stuff together. "I'm leaving you. I'm using your door this time. I'm taking your spare key."

"Good idea."

Taking a pause from his packing, Callen looked at Sam with a slightly dazed expression. "God, I can't believe I just did that."

Sam glared at his partner. "Well, neither can I."

"So I don't have to remind you that it stays between us until the day we die," warned Callen as he fished inside the last paper bag and handed Sam a pack of origami paper. "I've kept an impressive collection of tootsie pops wrappers for you to make those adorable ducks. But I think this is better."

Callen's words brought a nice warm sensation in Sam's stomach. He didn't even bother to correct his partner's ducks reference. Must be the medication, he decided, makes me loopy.

"Good night, Sam."

"Night, G."

He was almost drifted back to sleep when he heard Callen's shouting from the living room.

"Uh… Sam, I can't find your key. Can I use your window again?"

Sam shook his head, smiled softly, and snuggled deeper into his pillow.

"I'll be quiet this time. I promise. Sam?"

What happened to Callen is something that I suffer and my mother always says that I only make excuses not to clean up. Honestly, though, dust and I are not best friends.