Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS: New Orleans or its characters…

Author's Note: Inspired by all of Marjorie K Place's character abuse… ;-) It's been awhile since I've written some straight whumpage, and MJK can't be expected to write all of the Abuse!LaSalle fics out there… So a one-shot whumping on Chris LaSalle a little bit… (with badassery of course).

"Why didn't you wait for backup?"

Pride's tone was markedly fatherly, his hand squeezing Chris' shoulder in a gentling gesture that was firm enough to belie the older agent's concern. Generally, the man kept things a little more 'mentorly' with his junior agent, but LaSalle supposed the extra sentiment wasn't completely unwelcome. And although they neither of them openly admitted it, their friendship had definitely strayed more into the father-son territory than strictly that of fellow agents. Which was nice sometimes, like when a man found himself hurting something fierce and it was all he could do not to curl up in a ball and cry for his mama.

Truth be told, Chris had come to prefer Agent Brody's attention after he got rather banged up on a raid or the like because -no offense, King- her pretty face, even contorted with concern was a nice distraction from the aches and pains. But this time, it was Pride attempting to converse with him and pull his attention away from the needle and thread boring through his flesh and pulling the severed edges of tissue together. Using every remaining ounce of his energy, Chris had poured on his charm, and somehow convinced the EMTs just to patch him up on site. No need to go to the hospital.

He wasn't sure he could handle a trip to the hospital at the moment.

Only sick people went to the hospital. Therefore, if he didn't go to the hospital, he wasn't sick... or horribly injured, as it were.

Okay, okay. Specious logic, he knew. But he clung to it nonetheless, because the thought of those institutionally beige and grey corridors, the rooms reeking of strong antiseptic, all those people suffering... He rather crawl into bed and sleep off the internal bruising.

Pride was still staring at him. It was almost, but not quite a glare. And what the hell was that about?

Oh, right, because he hadn't responded to the beginning of the scolding he likely rightly deserved.

"There wa'n't time, King," he said, wincing as the medic tugged at the thick thread, pulling the sutures tight and closing the deep gash in the meat of his bicep. Damn that hurt, even with the local anesthetic they'd administered. He'd probably be wishin' he'd sought professional help as he struggled to survive the next couple days only with his choice of ibuprofen or Tylenol... and not even the kind with codine in it. If the already throbbing aches in various parts of his body were any indication, he'd likely not even be able to move the next morning.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, King's tone grew angry.

"He coulda killed you, Christopher. What were you thinkin'?" he asked, his voice becoming a fraction louder and sharper.

Chris knew it was only because the older man was upset that his agent gotten banged up, could've been seriously injured, and yes, died. But even so, he hadn't had a damned choice. He'd had to move on the man.

Best start at the beginning he supposed. Maybe it would count as his debrief and he could go home straight from the scene to sleep until tomorrow.

"Well, I was holed up alongside that building across the street waitin' for ya..."

...

The target didn't seem to notice him. But the man was likely not noticing much in that state. Seaman Gerald 'Bull' Pike was so strung out on meth that he'd been in a drug-induced psychotic break for the past two days. One of those 'hard luck' cases that some old school judge figured the Navy could straighten out better than the prison system. Not that Chris didn't believe such an approach could be extremely successful, maybe in some petty crimes cases like theft and the like. But for a man like Bull, with a history of drug abuse -and not the light stuff- Chris sort of wanted to punch that judge in the face who'd given the man the option of being trained in lethal skills.

Pride and Brody were tracking down the drug trafficking ring they'd exposed whilst investigating Pike's AWOL rampage. Someone had been smuggling drugs, including cocaine, heroine and meth onto the USS Sheridan, where Pike had resumed using, apparently decided to party harder while in port at New Orleans, and OD-ed himself into a psychotic break. And the man was violent, had already killed three people in the past two days, and showed no sign of stopping. Chris had been just a couple miles away, interviewing an old high school buddy of Pike's, but the man hadn't had any contact with Bull for years, and seemed legit. While headed back to the office, Chris had picked up the call on his scanner for a suspect meeting Pike's description fleeing down a street just a couple blocks away after robbing a convenience store.

Honestly, Chris had been surprised to hear he had the capacity to do any such thing as rob someone, especially when he made a pass down the street and saw the man barreling haphazardly through people's back yards, like a bear just woken up for the spring with his brain still half in hibernation.

Pike was dangerous. He was a huge man with an insane violent streak, and Pride had made it abundantly clear that they were not to try to take him on their own, because if they survived, the senior agent would kick their asses himself.

Perhaps it made him a bad person, even sadistic, but truth-be-told, if the large, crazed sailor and ex-con had been just ambling down the middle of that back alley, Chris probably would've simply hit him with the SUV... just a little tap to make sure he stayed down and was amenable to being cuffed and hauled off.

Alas, a federal agent couldn't very well go smashing government property into civilian property, destroying some nice folk's back yard landscaping.

He'd pulled off into an empty driveway, and edged up to the side of the building, keeping an eye on the big seaman as he ambled determinedly through the fenced-in yards, like Frankenstein's monster, destructive and single-minded, sort of clumsy and clueless. Chris had called Pride, and the senior agent had ordered him to stay put, which he was happy to do, considering the gigantic, brutish appearance of 'Bull' Pike. Damn, the file said he was 6'7" and 300 pounds, but reading that and seeing it was an entirely different thing.

It had been maybe a minute, and the oblivious monster continued to make his way through the backyards, trying to climb over the shorter fences, simply smashing through the taller ones. Pride and Brody were still ten minutes out. And Pike was almost out of his sightline. He'd have to reposition.

Even though it was doubtful that Pike would notice him, Chris was still careful as he moved several houses down to take up a new position to observe the Bull, feeling more like an animal control officer tracking an escaped rhino from the zoo.

And then he saw them.

Two yards down from the one in which the drugged-out psychotic ex-con sailor was fighting with a chain-linked fence, two small children were playing in a little sandbox. They couldn't be more than five years old, either of them.

"Dammit," Chris swore under his breath. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk that the brute who was more animal than man at the moment wouldn't hurt those little kids, especially if their presence startled the cracked-out seaman.

Pike was now in the yard just beside the one where the kids played, happily oblivious to the monster that was about to crash into their innocent lives.

Chris swore again, just for good measure, and then ran across the street. Thankfully, he saw the mother at the sliding glass door and she spotted him.

"Federal Agent! Get the kids inside, now!"

Also lucky, the woman didn't freeze, but ran for her kids, picking up the smaller one and dragging the other one by the arm as they hurried into the house.

Not lucky, all of the shouting hadn't gone unnoticed by Pike, and when, assured that the kids were out of the way, Chris swung around to face the man, he found him rushing towards him, like the bull of his namesake. He supposed it was quite an apt nickname, like a confused bull, he had ambled about, seemingly clumsy and bumbling, but once he had Chris in his field of vision, he had focused entirely upon him. And it was too late for the agent to respond.

He'd managed only to get his gun halfway in the man's direction before the Bull crashed through the low fence and hit him dead center, tackling him right off from the sidewalk and onto the asphalt, his gun flying from his grip to clatter as it skidded across the road.

Chris' vision was temporarily a blur of blackness and bright light and his diaphragm seized from the impact leaving him gasping and breathless as he felt the heavy weight of the man shift on top of him, and threw up his arms to protect his face in an instinctive reaction just in time to block the blows that began to rain down upon him. 'Meat hooks' were right. His fists were like clubs. Chris had been hit with a bat a couple of times, and man, that was nothing compared to the powerful blows of the psychotic sailor's fists as they landed on his forearms, the pain so acute the agent guessed he'd probably have hairline fractures in the bones.

He couldn't just lie there and take it. Eventually, his arms would give out and then those powerful blows would be landing on his face and head and he wouldn't last long then, before losing consciousness and then dying. So Chris wriggled about, pulling his knee up towards his chest, working it between himself and the impossible mass of human flesh above him until finally he had the leverage he needed and heaved in one sharp movement, straining all the muscles in his body to throw the giant man off from him.

He heard Pike hit the ground beside him with a thump and a groan.

No time to lose.

Chris scrambled to his feet, a little unsteady, silently demanded that the world stop spinning, and did a quick evaluation of his surroundings. His gun was a good ten yards away now, but just beside him were the broken remnants of the picket fence.

Broken bit of wood it was, then, preferably with a nail. He reached for one.

It had only taken him a second, a fraction of a second even, to check out his surroundings and decide upon a course of action, but damn if that monster wasn't quicker than he'd given any sign of earlier. Chris barely had his hand on the end of a fence post when he felt that incredible, dense mass impact him again. This time, Pike's tackle carried him several feet into the yard landing them both in a twisted mass of metal that just a split-second earlier was patio furniture. Chris hit it first, serving as sort of a shield for the crazed Bull, crying out with pain as he felt the metal cut through his arm and side.

Instead of sitting on him and trying to punch him into the ground like last time, the big man got to his feet and then lumbered forward, reaching for his smaller opponent, likely wanting to pick Chris up and throw him against the side of the house, or through a glass window. That was a journey that the agent didn't really want to make, so he hastily reached out and felt around until his fingers wrapped around the smooth end of a metal cylinder, a pipe knocked loose from whatever lawn furniture the brawling pair had just destroyed.

He meant to swing it at the man's head as he rushed in to grab him, but apparently that last crash to the ground had dazed Pike, as well, for he was just a fraction slower than Chris had anticipated, and the agent managed to get the piece of metal up in time for the Bull to impale himself on the narrow metal pole, with a disturbing spurt of blood.

And Chris supposed it was a stereotype for a reason, but it still seemed extremely surreal as he watched Pike look down at the object sticking out of his chest, blood beginning to pour from his agape mouth. The man's expression was one of pure shock, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Chris' before he fell forward, like an ancient oak tree being downed, and the agent delirious and giddy and in shock slightly himself, whispered "Timber" as he scrambled out of the way of the large dead mass as it came crashing down to the ground.

Chris himself, collapsed to a grassier part of the lawn and lay there bleeding and aching and trying to catch his breath until his fellow agents arrived on the scene, and called for an ambulance and the coroner.

...

Pride nodded as Chris finished his tale, and the medic finished stitching up the gash in his side.

"Can't say I woulda done any different," the older agent said, seemingly pacified, patting him on the shoulder. "You done good.

But now you are goin' to the hospital."

"But, King-" Chris knew he sounded like a pouting child, but to hell with that! He was not going to the hospital. He hated the hospital. And didn't he deserve a break after what he'd done?

"After what you told me, you might have injuries worse than those scrapes and bruises," Pride said in the tone that brooked no argument. "And you're goin' to get checked out."

"Last time I save the day," Chris muttered under his breath. Unfortunately, Pride heard him, but rather than scowl, he smiled.

"You wanted to play Hero, Christopher. This is the price."

END

A/N: I definitely need to practice my action-writing again… So possibly more stories like this to come (Or maybe I'll actually get my butt around to finishing up Ballast)

A/N2: I just made up a ship name, but apparently the USS Sheridan was an actual vessel… it's rather difficult to find a legit sounding fake one, I guess…