Recoil

My tag to Praesidium: (episode 6.03) After the shootout at Hetty's house, Granger was worried about Nell after her first shoot. Eric and Sam found out he was right.

Standard disclaimers apply: Characters property of Shane Brennan and CBS.

At ten o'clock that night, Sam's phone beeped. As he rolled over to get it, Michelle looked over his shoulder. "Don't your guys ever take a rest?"

Sam tapped it to check the message. "It's Nell. She had her first shoot today."

"Still, why's she turning to you?"

"Dunno, but I'll have to find out."

I need your help, Sam.

Nell, what's the problem?

It's Eric. She ralphed on my phone.

Booze?

Yeah.

The shoot?

Yeah.

Be right there.

Nell's place. Thanks.

Michelle put her hand on Sam's shoulder and her cheek beside his. " 'Ralphed'? Who still says 'ralph'?"

He pointed at the screen. "Eric, apparently."

"Things are settled here. Go, honey." In the entrance, Michelle kissed him. "Now I know why we didn't have more kids."

Struggling into his boots, Sam muttered, "No, the CIA's why we didn't have more kids."

"Honey…" she said with danger in her voice.

"It's true. If we hadn't stopped, you'd still be four years away from going back."

She relented. "I guess that's true enough. Just go. Get some rest."

After a ten-minute drive on silent streets, Sam pulled into a spot across the block from Nell's red Mini. He saw Eric's car just down the road.

When Sam poked his head in, Eric called, "In here, Sam."

As he cut through the kitchen, he noticed the empty fifths on her counter: bourbon, tequila, and spiced rum. He found Eric sitting on the edge of Nell's tub, and Nell stooped before her toilet.

"Again?"

"No, just close. It would have been the fourth time since I got here."

"If she polished off three bottles of liquor, it's no wonder. At her weight, I'm surprised she's upright."

"She says there was just a splash in each."

Sam examined him carefully.

"She says." Eric repeated. "I'm guessing they were pretty big splashes."

"Yeah."

"Nobody leaves just a splash of Captain Morgan."

Sam gave a smile. "Lightweight."

"No. She's only been legal for three years. Last year, she told me she bought it in her 'finding her way' days. Outgrew it after two nights of raspberry daiquiris."

Finally, Eric pulled her upright and used a damp red cloth to wipe her lips. Setting it on the sink, he ran a tan cloth under the water next, and when it had warmed sufficiently, he used that on her brow and cheeks. "Thanks," she finally said.

Eric wrapped her arm around his waist and led her to her sofa. Once he had covered her with a blanket, he settled on the other end of the sofa and indicated to the recliner for Sam.

As Nell settled in to fitful sleep, Sam asked, "So, tell me what happened."

"She texted me about an hour ago. It said, 'Out, out, damned spot.'"

"Shakespeare."

"Yeah. After the shootout at Hetty's house, comms was still on. I'd heard what Granger said so figured then it was sinking in. I came over here and found her sloppy drunk, found her Sig on the coffee table."

Sam pulled his chin. "Not a good combination."

"No. I hid it behind her breakfast cereals."

"Good move, but dangerous. You disarmed a federal agent."

Eric waved it off. "She was distracted." Then second thoughts of revulsion creased his brow. "Basically 'cause she was vomiting all over my new iPhone."

"That's gotta hurt."

"Like you said, though, it got her disarmed. I'd take that trade any day."

"Where's the phone now?"

"Once I got her over the toilet, I swabbed it down, took out the battery, and have it drying in a bag with some rice and baking soda I got from her kitchen. We'll hope for the best."

They sat in tense silence for a few minutes, Sam watching Eric, Eric watching Nell. Finally Eric broke the silence. "So what next for Lady Macbeth here?"

"A little more sleep, then I'll see what she's thinking." Another silence. "Did you get a sense where her mind is?"

"As soon as I got here, she said, 'Good shoot? —He's dead: there's no such thing as a good shoot.' Gradually, though, it changed. Last thing she said was 'Family. He must have had a family.'"

"The first thing is to just get her through the night. After that, it may be a long process, probably need Nate for it." When Sam saw Eric's apprehension, he continued. "She'll need her friends, too. You've done good, Eric."

Eric gave a wry smile. "Thanks. What do you think you'll need from me?"

"Keep her comfortable. Be here as her friend. No judging. Follow my lead."

"Can do."

They sat. "And keep that Sig hidden 'til she's out of the woods."

"Maybe let's wait for Hetty's or Nate's okay to give it back?"

Sam pulled his chin in thought. "Yeah, let's play for that."

After a while, Nell's snores became snortles, then moans. When her eyes finally opened, Eric handed her a water bottle while Sam rummaged in her kitchen, returning with dry Cheerios and saltines.

"Sam? What are you doing here? Rest of the team?"

"Everyone else is probably asleep. It's just Eric and me."

"Why you, Sam?"

"Eric thought I could help. He said you were…"

"Yeah," she interrupted. For a minute, they let the ellipsis do the talking.

Through the blanket, Eric put a hand on Nell's knee. "Sam's a wise man, Nelly. I'll leave you two to talk."

"Don't leave!"

"I'm not going anywhere. I've just got to clean up your bathroom some."

When they heard the water running, Sam started his questioning. "So what happened this afternoon, Nell?"

"He had an AK-47. He was coming at me. I shut myself in Hetty's bathroom, but he busted down the door."

"You were protecting yourself, Nell," Eric interjected from the hallway.

Sam waved him off. "It was either you or him."

"Before he could aim, I took the shot. I think the first one got him in the stomach, second one in his lung."

Sam looked up. "I read Rose's preliminary report. Actually, you hit the pulmonary artery. He bled out almost instantly."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Yeah, instantaneous, painless. Probably faster than a heart attack, not to mention cancer. Would you have wished that on the guy?"

"No! …Yeah! I don't know. I mean, it's not mine to decide."

"You didn't decide, Nell. He decided when he decided to come after you. To come after us."

"I could'a winged him."

"What, aim for his trigger finger? That's a high-risk shot, and Kensi was just beyond the wall. With a miss, your stray bullet could have hit Kens." Nell shuddered. "Besides, my experience is that that usually just pisses them off more. With all that adrenaline, he'd have clubbed you with his rifle-butt then come after me." Sam paused. "Then I'd have had to shoot him."

Nell looked at her ceiling, so Sam continued. "We know the statistics. Only ten percent of mercenaries die of natural causes. Think of this as nature taking its course."

"What, like law of the jungle?"

"More 'kill or be killed,' like the giraffe kicking out at the lion on the Serengeti." When Nell's eyes widened, Sam explained. "What? My daughter's into those National Geographic videos."

"You're the first person to ever compare me to a giraffe."

Sam was interrupted as Eric returned to the living room. "What? I like your neck!"

Sam looked up at him. "Too much information, there, Beale. Are we talking Dracula-style?"

"No! It's just… graceful…expressive...like it's got its own vocabulary." He'd stepped beside the sofa, and started massaging her shoulders. She smiled and tipped her head to nudge her temple against his forearm. Sam's knowing smirk wiped Eric's smile off his face and sent him scurrying to the kitchen.

Startled, Nell sat up. "I don't want to become a simple killing machine."

"You won't, Nell. This reaction proves you're not a 'killing machine.'"

"What? So I have to go on a binge anytime I hurt a guy? Embarrass myself in front of my team? I better get me a discount card at Wino World."

"...and another one at Livers-R-Us!" Eric chipped in.

"What you do is you learn, Nell." Sam thought for a minute. "You know, some hunters have a ritual, say it goes back to the Indians, but I don't know. But anyhow, after they've shot their turkey or buck or whatever, they pray over it. They think about its life. They honor its spirit. They thank it for becoming their food."

"But I'm not going to eat this guy. That's"

"No, that's not what I mean. What I mean is that if you understand this guy, and why he did what he did, why you did what you did, then you won't lose your humanity." For a while, Eric's mop made the only sound in the apartment, but then Sam continued. "I read this guy's file. Eric put it together before we went home. Born in East Germany in 1984. His father was a miner, died of heavy-metal poisoning when this guy was five. His mom worked at a factory that got 'obsoleted' when the Wall came down, and she couldn't adapt to the go-go capitalism of the Wessis, so she drank herself into the grave when he was only ten."

"Ouch."

"The city of Halle didn't put much emphasis on orphanages after Reunification, so he answered his conscription with a giant chip on his shoulder. Easy prey for his C.O., who was putting together a mercenary consulting firm in time for their discharge."

"You make it sound so natural, like he didn't have a choice."

Sam leaned forward. "He did. He spent his teenage years a lot like Callen did, but look at Callen's work. For this guy, his time in the Bundeswehr could have turned him around, but he chose the dark path. He's the one who became the killing machine, not you."

Eric settled onto his end of the couch. "I looked up his band of mercenaries. They'd been running about five ops a year all over the world. Figure they killed twenty people in each op. Assign a quarter of them to your guy, that's twenty-five a year."

"Nasty dude," Nell confirmed.

"And if you hadn't stopped him, he'd have kept on for another—what—twenty-four years? That's six hundred lives you saved today." Eric gently shook her foot.

"Yeah, but you heard Sam." Nell sat up. "He probably would have died before he went to the Rest Home for Retired War Criminals."

"I'll grant you that." Eric looked at the bookcase and ran his fingers through his hair. "Figure he would have been equally likely to get stopped at any of his future operations. That brings it down to 'only' three hundred."

"Oh good grief!" Sam grumbled. "Only you two would reduce Nell's good to a math problem: Integrate from here to infinity, borrow the three, carry the two and call it a day."

Nell looked across the coffee table at Sam. "He has a point, though. There is a greater-good argument to make."

"If that's what works for you, it's for the good." Then Sam turned to Eric. "Good job."

After a stretch of silence, Eric disappeared into the kitchen and returned fifteen minutes later carrying a tray. "Here's what my Nana always gave me for an upset stomach."

Sam's eyes lit up. "Real milk toast?"

"Hey, it works! It gets the nutrients in, and the milk and butter cut the stomach acid. There's a banana and some applesauce, too, for electrolytes."

When Eric straightened and looked toward the kitchen, Sam held out his hand. "No coffee yet. Maybe she'll sleep before morning."

"Got it. Coffee for you?"

"I'm good. We should all try to sleep before work."

With that, Sam spread his jacket across his chest and burrowed deeper into Nell's chair. Eric sat down and used the spoon to cube the milk-soaked toast for Nell to eat.

"This is just our secret, Sam. No 'Milktoast Beale.' "

"Wouldn't think of it, Eric. You've done good." Then his lips turned up into a grin. "Any leftovers, though, would seal the deal."

Eric smiled. "There's still milk in the saucepan, and the cinnamon sugar is in the cupboard on the left."

On the way back from the kitchen, Sam bumped Eric's shoulder in gratitude. Eric pulled his blanket up to his chin and looked out the window at the sky starting to lighten.

Author's note: For what it's worth, my spell checker wanted to correct "Lady Macbeth" to "Lady Machete."