Marty and Clay
The events of the past week had been a blur, between the dumbass agent dying--that was one of the problems with the feds, the ones he had killed died too easily, there was no sense of satisfaction--and the lockdown and the moving and the boring classes and the gun qualifying, it seemed like it had only been a few hours since he had stood on this very ground talking to G Callen about his arthritic hands. He didn't like telling people about that, but he knew part of surviving here meant being a team player.
"Agent Deeks, could I have a word please?" He asked as he finished off the cigar. He held the stub in between his fingers waiting for it to cool so he could dispose of it properly. He figured tossing it on the grass would earn him a stern talking to. He extended his other hand to the other man, who reminded him somewhat of his stepson. He just hoped the man wasn't a whiny little bitch like his stepson. "I would like to talk to you about sparring and such."