"She alright, G?"

To be honest, his world is tilted a bit off of its axis at the moment and short of stopping completely, time had seemed to slow considerably when he had busted into the interrogation room, catching a glimpse of Nell over his partner's shoulder. It was certainly not a sight for sore eyes, or any eyes, really, because there was Nell - sweet, beautiful, strong Nell being held in a choke hold with the suspect doing everything in his power to use her own weapon against her. And, it had been clear she was losing the fight to keep him from pulling the trigger; her shallow gasps and blown pupils were both indicators of an inability to breathe and she was only able to keep his arm so far from her body.

"She, um," if he has to blink the tears away, Sam either doesn't notice or chooses not to say anything. God, how he was reminded of the Inman case, and how it had been with suspiciously damp eyes, that he informed Hetty that he was through playing Granger's game, that almost getting Nell killed was it. "Yeah. She'll be fine."

Sam Hanna is not fooled by his partner's brush-off.

G. Callen was nothing if not a burden carrier, seeming to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and right now, he was drowning himself in guilt. While, subconsciously he might know that he had sent Nell in before it was known, Brown was dangerous, he still felt responsible for her. For the fact that she's sitting at the table gritting her teeth against the sting of stitches being pulled through her skin.

"It's not your fault. Not by a long shot, G." he watches Deeks pull his jacket off and wrap it around Nell's shoulders, encouraging the young woman to slip her arms into the sleeves, to ward off the chill that shock could induce. When she's done as he requested, he zips it up, and taps her nose gently. Despite his initial hesitation and indifference toward the L.A.P.D detective, he has to admit the shaggy-haired man is shaping up to be a damn fine man and, should he ever desire to make it official, a good agent. "Nell is more than capable of handling herself. She proved that the minute that knife went into Brown's leg and shoulder."

"So," Deeks approaches with a satisfied grin. "Brown won't be using his shoulder for a while."

"Why's that?" Sam inquires when his partner remains almost catatonic.

"Extensive tissue damage, severed ligaments, and a torn muscle." the blonde detective winces, not in sympathy for the suspect, but rather at the thought of such a small person being able to do so much damage. "Oh, and that hit he took to the leg? Apparently, Nell's aim was spot-on. She hit his femoral artery with almost surgical precision."

"She's good, G." Sam claps his partner's shoulder before motioning for Deeks to follow him. "C'mon, man. You've been a damn good friend, let me buy you a drink."

"Well, I can't argue with that." Deeks laughs, sobering slightly as he glances back at Nell. "But I think I'd rather be here with her."

"I've got her, Deeks." Callen murmurs, regarding the detective with something resembling respect. "Go on, before Sam retracts his offer."

Deeks nods, touching Callen's shoulder briefly in a show of camaraderie, before leaving with Sam. The boatshed empties as the medics finish, giving Nell a clean bill of health, and prepare to vacate with the premises, under the guise of it being a prank call from a payphone, nearby. Untraceable and not worth a full investigation that prank calls could sometimes entail. By the time, they arrive back at the hospital, Hetty will have already straightened the whole ordeal out. The circle of medics around her slowly breaks until the last medic, an older gentleman with a daughter about her age, taps her on the nose and leaves, orange first-aid bag in hand.

There she is.

Sweet, beautiful Nell Jones perched on the table, swinging her legs like a child, while her hands squirm restlessly in her lap. She looks restless, but exhausted, and slightly (okay very) traumatized. He doesn't blame her - he's been there; the first interrogation that doesn't go quite like it should, and you end up needing stitches or a bandage, and something to ward off the shock. He knows she'll be okay, but he can't help himself, he has to know.

He has to be sure.

"He - um, Hey Nell." Callen approaches cautiously. "You good?"

"Yeah," Nell nods, fiddling with the hem of the too-big hoodie. "Deeks - he, uh, he told me not to, um, he told me - "

"Nell." he interrupts her, when her voice cracks and her eyes jerk around, unable to focus. "Hey, look at me."

She trips and stumbles over her words because it's all setting in. Her lips quiver and lashes flutter impatiently against her cheekbones, because it's all so damn frustrating. Her body won't cooperate, and it seems communication from her brain to her mouth has seemingly stopped, entirely.

"I didn't ask because I wanted you to lie to me, Jones." his lips curl slightly, because she's shaken and so is he and he'd give anything to see that smile. "Tell me the truth? Are you alright? Because, if not, we can get the hell out of here, right now."

The truth.

That's a foreign concept at NCIS.

Honestly? Her muscles ache, her eyes are burning with exhaustion, and she'd give anything to get the hell out of this damn boat shed and go home. She wants a hot shower, a glass of whiskey, and a warm bed.

She wants what is familiar and safe.

"Nell?"

"I just want to go home, G." her voice is hoarse, broken, and she barely recognizes it as her own. "Please?"

"Okay." Callen nods sharply, reaching into his pocket for his keys. "Let's go."

The blood in the interrogation room, her fingerprints on a knife and Brown's gun, and every other remnant of a day shot to hell is left behind for Hetty to deal with. Neither of them feel like cleaning up the mess of the day. Not when they haven't had a chance to process it, yet.

God help them, when they do.