So, I've been watching season two on DVD, and then I just rewatched "Skin Deep" on DVR...yeah, I blame this on all of those. It's Densi people.
The world's supposed to end on a Friday, or at least that's what they say. Who knows, maybe the Mayans got it wrong, or maybe, just maybe the whole race decided to play one big practical joke, all etched in stone.
But today isn't Friday, and the world's not about to end, or at least he doesn't think it will. He realizes they're all nothing more than a distraction, each and every one of them. Each encounter is too short to be classified as a relationship, and too impersonal to be considered a fling. It's all about convenience and need, all about finding a distraction.
He isn't in love with his partner, he's almost positive of that. He's read the poems. All the literature, limericks, and prose that was forced on him throughout school-a bunch of randomness written by some old guy with a feather in his hat and a stick in his ass who's trying to define 'love', equating it to a burning fire, blah, blah, blah.
That's not him and Kensi, not by a long shot. If anything, their relationship is closer to a bon fire, each one dancing around it, keeping their distance, never getting close enough to get burned. It works, except for the whole him needing to find a distraction thing.
The first time she was forced to flirt with a suspect, he had called up an old ex, someone with blonde hair and a sense of adventure, someone who wouldn't mind having a little fun for just a little while. The last time Kensi went on a date, he didn't care to remember the girl's name—something that started with an 'A'.
An hour ago, he didn't even bother to get the girl's name, but to be fair, she didn't seem all that interested in learning his either.
She had tasted like Cheetos, her fingers stained orange from the highly processed powder-coated snack. His shirt is streaked with her fingerprints, little orange lines tracing his ribcage.
She had looked like a flapper, straight out of the twenties. Hair cut short, bobbed above the chin, dark eyeliner, playful smirk. She was fun and had a van.
When Eric phoned, calling him back into work only a few hours after the work day had ended, she had told him goodbye with a kiss, stretching lazily beneath the blanket as he got dressed.
Now, he's hoping like hell no one calls him on the fact that he smells like sex or notices Flapper's fingerprints all over his shirt. Maybe he can make it to his locker or his desk before the rest of the team arrives. But that would mean that luck is on his side.
"Why do you look like a five-year-old that couldn't find a napkin?" Callen's leaning back in his chair, his feet crossed at the ankles, propped on the edge of his desk. He's smiling, a rubix cube in his hands as he studies Deeks with a careful, mirthful eye.
Deeks allows a shy smirk to play out as he opens his desk drawer, reaching in the back for the tightly folded spare shirt. "Any idea why Eric called?" Deeks asks, popping the shirt sharply before smelling it, checking to make sure it's wearable.
Callen stares a few more moments, his eyes squinted in suspicion as he watches Deeks change shirts. "Don't know yet," he admits, turning the cube a few more times. "You didn't answer my question."
"And what question would that be?" Deeks tucks the stained shirt into the small drawer as he plops into his seat, forcing himself to meet Callen's gaze.
"What's with the shirt?" Callen asks, dropping his feet and leaning forward, his elbows resting on the desk.
"What's with all the questions?" Deeks counters, imitating Callen's pose.
"You know," Callen says with an accusing smile, "for a guy that just got laid, you seem kinda pissed."
Deeks stares for a moment, his tongue unconsciously tracking along his lower lip as Callen's knowing smile grows. "Is it that obvious?"
"To me it is," Callen tells him, leaning back in his seat, "But if you want your secret kept, you might wanna go clean up a little before your partner gets here."
Ten minutes later, Deeks is standing in Ops, waiting for Nell and Eric to start the show, wondering why Callen hadn't said anything when Kensi walked in, her playful smile asking Deeks where he ran off to a few hours before.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
The world's supposed to end on a Friday. Today's not Friday, but things aren't looking too hot. At least not from where Deeks is standing. Not too long ago, Kensi had asked him jokingly just how many people he had arrested. It was laughed off, but more than once already, he's come in contact with someone who could label him as LAPD, so it's no surprise that it's about to happen again. Except this time, Deeks doesn't think the night will end with a bouncer tossing him out the back door of a night club, or a stoner starting a bar fight. Nope, this is gonna get ugly.
They're standing side-by-side, Kensi's high heels making them almost the same height. Sam's standing right behind them, looking every bit the image of the watchful bodyguard. Deeks keeps his posture relaxed, his hands in his pockets, one ear trained on the sound of Callen and Eric's voices filtering through the mic, the other straining to hear the muffled voices in the distance, the ones hidden behind the door.
By all accounts, he shouldn't even be here. He should be at home, nursing a beer and regretting that moment of weakness with Flapper, thinking he should have kept going when he caught her eye. But someone somewhere had found something, which prompted someone else to call Hetty, which resulted in them being where they are now.
The only reason Callen isn't here is because the mark already knows him. They needed someone new, someone the guy wouldn't recognize. Enter stage left, the blond-haired, blue-eyed lawyer with a supermodel girlfriend/assistant and man-of-muscle bodyguard. Easy as pie.
Hetty had picked out their outfits. Deeks had to smile, because, yeah, he looks awesome in a suit. But then there was Kensi. All legs, and curves, and dark eyeliner. Marilyn's bedroom eyes. Come hither indeed. If he doesn't die in the next few minutes, Deeks'll have to ask Hetty if she chooses Agent Blye's wardrobe simply to torture him.
He knows he's in trouble the moment that laugh filters through the closed door. It's one of those laughs you never forget, the kind that when you hear it, you want to laugh along with them. Except Deeks isn't laughing.
There wasn't supposed to be anyone else. This was a private party, a meet-n-greet. No surprises. But things rarely go as planned. He can tell by Kensi's body language that she has no idea what's about to go down, no idea how bad things are about to get.
Were it not for the ten men with guns, all standing around casually, like holding their boss's new lawyer at gunpoint is as normal as watching the weather, Deeks would try to warn them, try to whisper in his mic that it's all about to hit the fan as soon as that door opens.
Instead, the best he can do is look to Kensi, and meet her eye. Judging by the look she gives him, the way that one eyebrow quirks in fear, he knows she can tell what he's trying to say. He's trying to apologize, to tell her he's sorry for what's about to happen and for everything that never did.
As the door opens, the laughter dies, and that metaphorical fan takes a beating.
"What the hell?" Mr. Laughter asks, his eyes looking from Deeks to their host. "What's he doin' here?"
Now everybody knows. Kensi takes a step closer, and though Sam's standing behind him, Deeks can feel him tense. Callen's worried voice in his ear isn't doing anything to calm Deeks' rapidly beating heart.
"He's my lawyer," the man says, insulted that his newest guest is making such a scene.
"Lawyer my ass," Mr. Laughter says, "When I knew him, he was a driver, barely had his GED if memory serves." Then Mr. Laughter squints his eyes, his brain adding one and one, and wouldn't you know his momma taught him how to count. Deeks is really wishing someone would turn off that fan now.
"You a cop, ain't ya?" he says, stepping closer to Deeks. That gets everyone's attention. Deeks can hear Callen calling abort, can hear him telling them that backup's moving in, just a few more minutes. Deeks holds up his hands, palms out.
"I'm not a cop," he lies, but as thug number one grabs him by the collar, pulling him away from Kensi, Deeks wishes like hell it were the truth. "Just hold on…"
"You're telling me this guy's a cop?" the man asks Mr. Laughter, one manicured nail pointing at Deeks accusingly, that protruding vein in his neck telling Deeks that he's more than a little pissed.
"Hang on Deeks," Eric says, causing Deeks' ear to tickle, "Callen's on his way, SWATS two minutes out."
"Get them out of here," the man says, gesturing to Kensi and Sam. Deeks watches as they're led away at gunpoint, both of them looking worriedly to Deeks. "You're a cop," the man says, nice and slow, like the realization isn't all that surprising.
Deeks doesn't answer, he can tell by Mr. Laughter's smirk that nothing good would come of it. Turns out keeping quiet ain't working too well either.
Deeks bites his lip as thug number one dead legs him, that army boot hitting hard against the back of the knee. He looks up, meeting the man's gleeful eyes. If there's a rule book out there, a guide on how to survive an encounter with a sociopath, Deeks is pretty certain rule number one would state that if said sociopath's eyes can be defined as 'gleeful' it's probably in one's best interest to haul ass.
Too bad thug number one's got the muzzle of his gun tangled in Deeks' hair.
The kick to the stomach is a little unexpected. He squeezes his eyes shut, his muscles retaliating as he tries and fails to suck in air. Maybe if his eyes were open he would see the butt of the gun swinging towards his face, but then again, he hadn't seen the kick.
His mouth fills with blood, that coppery taste tangy on his tongue as it pours from his lips. Funny how the only thing he can think is that Hetty's gonna kill him for ruining her shirt.
Then there's another hit and he's pretty sure he's got a loose tooth. He spits out the blood, swallows what's left before looking back up, meeting those gleeful eyes. Now he's regretting more than just that hour with Flapper. He's regretting not taking Kensi up on the offer to grab a bite to eat, to go out and shoot a little pool.
He knows someone's saying something in his ear, probably Callen, or Nell, or Eric. Who knows, maybe even Hetty, but right now all he can focus on is the pain and trying to breath as Mr. Laughter's infamous laugh provides a soundtrack to the beating, blending nicely into the backdrop as highly polished army boots meet flesh and bone.
It takes a moment for him to realize that the beating's stopped, that those hands trying to roll him over aren't simply looking for a softer target.
"Deeks, look at me." It's an order, but, really now he should be used to 'em, especially when they're coming from her. He opens his eyes and is met with Kensi's worried face, her hair a little messed, her barrette hanging loosely, threatening to fall any moment.
"I'm okay," he says and he feels the blood bubble around his teeth. He tries to sit up, to turn so he can spit, but Sam is there, one strong hand pushing gently on his chest, holding him down. He feels the blood spill down his chin, his tongue immediately feeling for the gash in his cheek.
"He okay?" he hears Callen ask from somewhere behind him. Deeks tilts his head back, his eyes scanning the room from upside down. There's SWAT all over, flashlights flickering on the ends of their guns. Mr. Laughter's on the floor, his hands secured behind his back. Thug one and three are on the ground as well, their eyes open to the ceiling, their chests still as the blood pools. Deeks doesn't see their host, the man who had started the whole little meeting.
"I'm fine," Deeks tells him, smiling at the three looks of doubt he receives. "Don't get me wrong, I hurt all over, but I don't think I'm gonna die." Which is pretty good in his book seeing how two minutes ago he wasn't so sure.
Soon there's more lights, more people, and a bumpy ride to the hospital for a few stitches and a doctor's word to back Deeks up on the whole 'not dying' thing.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
He should start playing the lottery, because seriously, he's got to be one lucky guy. Admittedly, one wouldn't know it just by looking at him, what with all the bruising and slight swelling, but hell yeah, luck is on his side. He could be dead, being fitted one last time for one of Hetty's nice suits. Instead, he's at home, savoring the feel of hot water as he soaks in the tub, the heat working to loosen his battered body.
He closes his eyes, pinches his nose, and bends his knees. The water covers his head, the sounds of the small, confined waves echoing in his ears, the cut below his eye burning and he vaguely remembers the doctor saying something about not getting it wet.
When he comes up, his fingers working to wipe the water from his eyes, he hears the sound of someone pounding at his door, his name being called in a familiar voice. He doesn't even bother pulling the plug as he hurries to get out, stopping only to grab a towel and secure it around his waist before retching the bathroom door open, his feet working to get him to the door before she changes her mind. Of course, if he'd stop to think it through, he'd realize she doesn't really know how to change her mind. She's stubborn and determined.
His phone's ringing by the time he makes it to the living room, the light shining from the coffee table, the vibration making it dance next to his keys. He pulls the door open, smiling as he sees that annoyed pout coupled with that worried frown as she holds the phone to her ear.
She waits a moment, both their phones still ringing as he watches her study him, her dark eyes taking in the developing bruises above the towel, the ones she hadn't seen before now.
"I, uh…I just…" she starts, stumbling for words as his voice mail picks up, the sound of his voice telling her to leave a message after the beep sounding small as it filters through her speaker. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay," she eventually says with a tone of finality, making it sound as though she had only just come to that conclusion herself.
"And you had to turn around and drive back here to check?" he asks, no judgment in his voice. The sound of late-night traffic drifts up from the street, his neighbor slams a door before yelling at her kid, Monty whimpers from his spot on the couch, the same spot he's been in since Kensi dropped Deeks off almost an hour earlier.
She's still wearing her makeup, those dark bedroom eyes she had adorned for the show, the ones that go with the dress she's still wearing beneath her green jacket. Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail, no longer the post-scrambled mess it had been before the trip to the hospital.
"I just needed to make sure," she says, and Deeks swallows when he hears a slight tremble to her voice. He simply nods as he steps back, opening the door wider so she can come in.
"I'm fine, Kens," he promises her, locking the door as she crosses the room nervously. He can tell part of her regrets coming back, regrets listening to that little voice that tells reason and logic to go to hell. But he knows that nobody's going to make Kensi Blye do something she doesn't want to, including Kensi Blye. "I'm a little banged up, but I'm okay."
She nods and leans against the wall, the corner leading to the hallway balanced between her shoulder blades. "You scared me today, Deeks." She looks down to her phone, frowning when she realizes it's still on, still connected to his voice mail.
"I scared me, too," he admits, causing her to look up. "I thought…" he doesn't say it, but then again he doesn't have to. She already knows, because she had thought the same thing. She nods, and looks away, one finger rising to angrily wipe away an errant tear.
One hand still holding the towel in place, he crosses the room, squeezing her shoulder as he forces her to look at him. "Are you okay?"
His hair's still soaking wet, trails of water making their way down his neck, over his shoulders, slowly falling until they meet the towel. She lets her eyes follow the paths, choosing not to answer his question.
He doesn't say anything when she reaches out, the tips of her fingers barely touching the outline of a bruise, a small welt visible from the tread of a boot. He keeps his eyes on her face, watching as she realizes what she's doing.
Instead of pulling back, she flattens her hand, smoothing her palm over the heated bruise. "It's getting to where we can't take you anywhere," she jokes, trying to find normalcy in this situation.
He keeps quiet until she meets his eyes, his hand still on her shoulder, her palm still pressed to his side.
As he steps forward, his head dipping down to kiss her, his mind goes back to all those poems he had read, back to that old guy with a feather in his hat. He's still not in love with his partner, not that he would say out loud anyway.
It isn't until he feels her drop her phone at their feet, both her hands rising to fist in his wet hair that he thinks about that bon fire, the one they keep dancing around. It's as he pins her against the wall, the towel be damned as he uses both hands to remove her jacket that he figures, yeah, maybe they are getting a little close, that things have been getting a little hot for a while.
He knows they should probably stop, but he's tired of it all. Tired off all the distractions, of always regretting everything he does and regretting what he doesn't do more. It's time to let her be his distraction. Let her distract him from the pain, from the fact that he almost died, that she could have died right along with him.
As she wraps her legs around his waist, the loosened towel finally making its way to the floor, Deeks begins to realize he shouldn't question Hetty's choice for Kensi's wardrobe. He should just buy the woman a gift basket and leave it at that.
Even in the rush of the moment, the frenzied desire to make it to the bedroom but only managing to get as far as the hallway, Kensi's surprisingly gentle, mindful of the ribs on his left side, her fingers tracing lightly over his swollen cheek.
Despite her care, he still feels the pain, feels the burn and pull of bruises. But it's okay, she's distracting him from it all, and god if she isn't a beautiful distraction.
So yeah, the world's supposed to end on a Friday, and that's all good because today ain't Friday.
FIN.