NaNo #1: Too Much (NCIS:LA)

[miss_lucy21]

There are days when the world is just too much for G. Callen. Not often, but sometimes everything he doesn't know and everything he doesn't quite understand seems to rise up and smack him in the face. Things like birthday cards, helicopter parents, embarrassing middle names (hell, embarrassing *first* names), buying furniture. The things that a (probably) 42 year old man should have some acquaintance with and he doesn't, not really.

And on those days, the world is too much. Everything is too bright and seems to have sharp edged outlines. People talk too loud and too fast. The mingled lunch smells in Ops make his stomach flip around and his tea is too bitter on his tongue, even with honey. The tags in his shirt and the waistband of his jeans feel like they're grating his skin clean off. And all he wants to do is curl up small under his desk, or in a storage closet, or on the floor of the backseat of Sam's car and shut out everything.

He stumbles through the day, even though it's like he's constantly looking through the side mirror of a car, where objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Most people don't notice, he knows. Hetty does, he's pretty sure, because she never scolds him for damaging the wardrobe and doesn't hassle him about paperwork on these days. He knows Sam notices, because when he's like this, Sam talks in a lower voice and more slowly. He runs subtle interference between G and everyone else and colludes with Hetty to get them out of work as early as possible.

Sam is silent as he drives them to his house. Once inside, where it is quiet, he turns down the lights- no overheads- and finds old sweats and a tshirt in a drawer, worn soft with age and lets G change into them. Then he feeds G toast with just a scrape of butter and a dab of jelly so there's something in his stomach to buffer the Tylenol PM he coaxes G into taking. Then he steers G into the bedroom and settles him into the bed that's been remade with his softest sheets. G burrows down into the sheets where it is calm and quiet and safe, even if it is only 2pm. Lets the medicine soothe away the headache that's been pounding behind his right eye and blunt the edges of his overextended senses. He doesn't sleep, not really. Just shuts out the world for awhile.

When he finally feels like he might be ready to do more than lie in Sam's bed and stare at the pattern of the blanket, it's late. The house is still dim and quiet, and he pads out into the living room, thankful that the sharp edges are gone. Sam is sprawled on the couch, reading a book. He looks up and smiles at G. "Better?" he asks.

"Yeah," G nods. "Better."

"Good," Sam says.