Deeks looked around him as he took in the interior of Callen's house. He'd always thought that Sam and Kensi were exaggerating when they said that Callen had no furniture. How wrong was he! Walking into the living area, the fireplace formed the natural focal point of the room. But there was no mirror or picture hanging above it and only a tin box adorned the mantelpiece. To the left of the hearth was a single chair and a small coffee table covered in books and a lamp. To the right was a large floor standing lamp. There was no carpet, just wooden flooring. The windows had no curtains or blinds. The room looked lonely, barren and cold. Deeks glanced at Callen who was observing him from the doorway.

"Wanna see what I've done with the rest of the house?" Callen asked with a straight face, cocking his head to one side.

"Well if it's as mind-blowingly creative as the decor in this room, then I think I'll pass," Deeks replied, wondering how the hell anyone could live – or sleep – this way. "Y'know we could've gone to mine. I have a sofa, and beers and a TV. Wait, you've gotta be kidding me - you don't even have a TV?" Deeks looked around again as he shook his head and followed Callen to the kitchen which was just as barren, muttering, "This is just so wrong..."

Callen smiled to himself as he opened the fridge door and grabbed four beers from his stash of a dozen. He hoped Deeks wasn't hungry; if he was, then it was take away or a liquid dinner. He twisted the cap off two of the bottles and opened the door to the small courtyard at the back. The foliage outside was the only indication that this house was once a home. The trees and shrubs were the decor, defining space, with the ornament of a wind chime and furniture consisting of an old wooden swing. A couple of weathered wooden benches completed the picture and Callen headed towards them.

"Thank you," Callen said to Deeks, as he handed him a cold beer.

"For what?" Deeks said in surprise, taken aback that his team leader had uttered two words he rarely used without real meaning.

"For everything you did in that house," even admitting he wanted to thank Deeks for being there, listening and forcing him to confront his emotions was impossible, so Callen generalised.

Deeks held Callen's serious stare, knowing exactly what he wasn't saying. "Ah you mean pushing all the wrong buttons to get you riled, it's a natural talent I have."

"I know, but seriously..." Callen attempted to explain.

"Ah, you also mean how I managed to escape from the house of fun, and then return just in time to rescue you. Y'know Sam and Hetty are right, you do need saving." Deeks gave Callen his million dollar smile; eyes twinkling. "Partner..."

Deeks held out his right hand which Callen took and they pulled each other into a brief hug before Callen quickly distanced himself. He reached into his back pocket and retrieved the childhood photo and the A4 paper, the latter covered with his scrawny eight year old hand writing and that of his social worker and his one time foster mother, Maria Campbell. He sat down on one of benches and leant back into the corner, stretching his legs out in front of him. Deeks sat down too, resting his elbows on his knees as he waited for Callen to begin.

"They made me write this; made me write that I'd made up stories about the Campbell's. Made me write that I did it for attention; to cause trouble. They told me it would go in my file and everyone would know I was a liar." Callen broke off, pausing slightly before continuing with a wry smile. "The ironic thing is that I never did it for attention; at least not in the way that you clown around to seek attention, pretending you're not hurting. But I do...did lie. A lot. Sometimes about the foster homes, if I didn't want to stay somewhere...Sometimes I'd lie just to fit in with a family or at school – especially when it meant getting on the sports team. But the Campbell's broke an already broken eight year old. Psychologically, she destroyed me within four weeks. It made me physically ill. She then took great care of me for a few weeks and just when I thought I might finally have turned the corner, that she really did care - they discarded me."

Deeks remained silent as he listened to Callen and wondered how easy it was to damage a child who had no family; that no one wanted to permanently foster or adopt. He'd heard that Callen had been bounced around from home to home and reckoned he'd built up his defensive walls from an earlier age than eight. He guessed it was fairly easy to break a child, to isolate them socially, destroying their self esteem and their sense of self. He certainly knew that his father had conditioned him from an early age. He'd been told he was useless, a waste of space. He'd learnt how to hide bruises from teachers and other adults. Callen was quite right in that he'd craved attention to counteract the fact he had none at home. So he'd play the joker at school. It also meant that people rarely bothered to look beneath the surface, so his own feelings remained buried. It had taken him until his late teens to realise that he was not useless and a waster, and that he could make something of himself, of his life. The choice had been his alone. Support had come from others. He studied Callen and to a certain extent realised it was like looking in a mirror. At some point Callen, most likely at a similar age to himself, had made a decision about where his life was going. Without interrogating Callen, he reckoned they'd both had to decide whether to sink into a spiralling life of crime, or tread water until they broke free and surfaced on to the side they were now firmly on.

Callen reached for the other two beers which he'd placed on the ground besides him and handed one to Deeks. Taking a long swig to finish his first, he continued. "I stayed in the children's home for a while after that. No one was interested in taking a challenging and damaged kid. Until some couple in Fresno wanted a younger brother for their other foster son, Jason. He sorted me out, looked out for me. I guess like a real big brother would. But one night I let him down. I hid behind the sofa as our drunken foster father beat him to death. It still kills me now; knowing I did nothing to help."

"You were like, eight. What could you do?" Deeks rubbed the cold bottle of beer over his cheek, fighting back memories of the violent abuse he had frequently suffered from the hands of his own drunken father. "If you'd tried to help, you'd probably have died too."

Callen took another long sip of beer and concentrated on peeling off the label. "I know. After the Campbell's I'd forgotten the rules, but seeing Jason die reminded me that no one could push me around or hurt me. You only have yourself to rely on, and if no-one was going to believe or trust me, then I would take the fight to them. If they beat me with a stick, I'd beat them with that same stick, twice as hard."

"Did it work?" Deeks asked, genuinely interested in Callen's survival techniques as a child, and understanding how they had forged him into the highly effective but somewhat closed off Federal Agent he was today.

"They soon learned..." Callen said, still looking at his beer bottle. "I got removed from a few homes for being violent and uncontrollable." He gave a short, sharp laugh. "Ended up in trouble a few times too." He shook his head and gazed into the distance. They were stories that had remained buried for over twenty years and he doubted they would ever see the light of day.

Deeks smiled. He would love to know what trouble Callen had landed himself in as a kid. He himself had really just followed the usual rites of passage as a teenager from a broken and abusive background; underage drinking, shoplifting, joyriding and of course girls.

"Sounds like a good job no-one threatened you with a shot gun then," Deeks stated, wondering if Callen would open up further.

"True," Callen said, breaking into a smile. "But if they had, I wouldn't have missed!"

"I did not miss," Deeks said indignantly. "I aimed the gun at my father and pulled the trigger."

The two slipped into an easy silence, both lost in memories of an uneasy childhood for several minutes until Deeks felt the need to speak. "If I get you a TV we could watch the Lakers game on Saturday."

"I don't need a TV," Callen replied. "Anyway I've got tickets and I'm going with Sam."

"Really? You've gotta be kidding me. I thought I was your new BFF. I was gonna bring over some burgers and see if that rusting old barbeque in the corner over there could be cleaned out. It was gonna be awesome; you, me, beers, meat and sport. You can't tell me that doesn't sound like a perfect Saturday."

"Well it does sound perfect – apart from it all taking place here. And I thought your TV preferences involved cosying up with Kens and watching America's Next Supermodel?" Callen drained the final drops from his second bottle and held it out to Deeks. "Another?"

"You my friend, will be passed out in about half an hour," Deeks stood up to fetch another couple of bottles. "And I am not carrying you inside. You got any food or is that a stupid question?"

Callen kicked his feet up on the bench and placed his hands behind his head. "Who do you think you are, Sam? I intend to pass out, I am fine sleeping here and yes it's a stupid question."

"Excellent," muttered Deeks as he wandered back to the house. Making sure he raised his voice so Callen could hear, he continued, "Sam will kill me when he finds out what I allowed you to force me to do, Hetty will then kill me for letting you drink after all that anaesthetic and Kensi will kill me when she finds out we're having beer and takeaway and didn't invite her."

"And I'll kill you if you don't bring me that beer," Callen smiled as he closed his eyes. He hated to admit it but talking to Deeks had almost felt good. He knew Deeks wasn't quite a kindred spirit but he recognised and appreciated their similarities. Maybe they could partner up every now and again. After all he needed to get his own back on Deeks for the stunts he pulled during their captivity. He opened his eyes slightly and thought that Hetty and Deeks were right, he probably shouldn't be drinking, but what the hell, at least he might get a good few hours sleep.

The End.

I have absolutely loved writing this story (apart from writers block around chapter 3-ish), and have loved the fact that so many of you have favourited, followed and left such wonderful comments. I am genuinely overwhelmed by them and it really does make writing this so worthwhile. Maybe I'll even write another! If you haven't checked out my other stories (all NCISLA & Callen-centric), then please do.

And lastly, all reviews and comments are very welcome - thank you all.