Everything came down to this. He fiddled with the silver band in his hand, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself down. Out of all the things that he thought he would be nervous about, he didn't think that this would be one of them. He had envisioned the day for so long; he had pictured and planned everything. Everything except for what was about to happen…

He adjusted his lilac tie, worried that the fluttering feeling in his stomach would cause him to suffocate. He had never been overjoyed with the color purple. He could remember the exact moment that his abhorrence for the color began.

Everything was fine. Everything was normal. Until his father stumbled home drunk, which had become a regular occurrence, so much so that Deeks had become accustomed to the stench of whiskey on his father, and anything less would seem unusual.

His father was slumped over on the couch, wasting away, watching the same old football game that he recorded whilst he was sober, so that he could watch it in his current state.

Deeks quietly tiptoed down the stairs of the house, perching his bottom on one of the steps in the middle. He peered through the gaps in the railings, just watching. He could hear the chatter from the television, of the announcer commentating the players moves; and the clattering from his mother, who was busy at work in the kitchen.

His gaze remained transfixed on his father, who was still hunched over, his pot-belly handing out of his ratty old t-shirt, inflated from one too many bottles of booze. He could see the shotgun beside him; that was always beside him any time he had a drink. It scared Deeks to the point where he actually thought his father would use it on his mother… or him. He hadn't yet… but there was always time…

His mother appeared from the kitchen, and exhaled in exasperation. She was tried. So tired, of everything – of working three jobs to support her family while her husband was too hungover most nights to even think about working; of cleaning up after the pig that was Gordon; of being the only person in the world that seemed to give a damn about her son, because it had become clear to her that his father surely didn't.

She pottered over to the living room, shaking her head. She was no stranger to two empty bottles of whiskey, or the odd bottle of brandy on the coffee table, but she'd had enough. Her eyes scanned over the bottles, tallying them up in her head. One… two… three… four… plus another, half full.

She bent over, gathering the bottles in her hands, each one clanking with another; enough to pull Gordon out of his intense fixation on the television. She felt a pair of strong, callous fingers grip her wrist. The bottles slipped form her fingertips, crashing against the table, fragmenting into a thousand little pieces which scatters across the hardwood floors. She gasped as the pain radiated throughout her fingers, throughout her arm, overwhelming her entire body. She bit her lip, hindering the cry of agonry located in the back of her throat.

He stood up off the couch, his once warm and caring eyes, now merciless and aggressive staring back at her, tarnished from the poison in the whiskey glass that he had to put to his lips. Her free hand reached for the half-drunken bottle of brandy, still sat on the table. He clasped her hand so forcefully, that she could feel the bruises being etched into her skin.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He spat.

"Cleaning up after you." She replied, brazen.

"You don't touch the bottles." He replied. She could feel his hold on her wrists, tightening.

"Gordon…"

"Roberta." He scolded.

"Gordon…" She pleaded. She began writing beneath his grip, attempting to release his hands from her wrists.

"You don't touch the bottle." He spluttered.

"Or what?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. She wasn't afraid of him. He was manipulative. He was violent. But she would never give him the satisfaction of thinking that he had power over her. Ever.

"Do you really want to find out?" he threatened. He released his grip on one of her wrists, tightening the other, as he clutched the shotgun in his hand. A gasp slipped through her lips as her eyes stared at the barrel that was pointing at her.

"No!" Deeks shrieked, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the railings tightened.

"Go upstairs, Martin!" yelled his mother, her eyes anchored on Gordon. She would do anything to protect her son; anything to protect him from the monster before her… and that included taking a bullet for him.

"Let the boy stay and watch…" Gordon slurred. He brandished the gun in his hand, his index finger carelessly sliding over the trigger.

"Momma!" Deeks cried, as Gordon liberated his grip on her wrist, just long enough to cock the gun, but returned it as she began to cower away from him.

Deeks clambered down the stairs to his mothers' side, tugging at her arm, as she remained motionless.

"Martin…" Her voice was barely audible, letting out nothing more than a whisper, just enough for Deeks to hear.

Deeks let out a gasp, as he found himself staring at the same barrel of the gun as his mother.

"You want me to use this, Roberta?" He gripped her blonde strands, yanking and tugging until she was keeled over, in agony. She could feel the rigid edges of his nails, embedding themselves in her scalp, her mouth unable to let out nothing more than a whimper.

"Please…" she sobbed, "don't hurt him…"

Deeks looked upon his father, who has a hold of his mother, like an animal clutching hold of its prey. He could hear her whimpering underneath his touch; a tear rolling down Deeks' cheek as he stood there, motionless. He had to do something.

His hands collided with Gordon's chest, who stumbled backwards; the edge of the coffee table ripping through him; the half-drunken bottle of brandy shattering from the impact; and the shotgun falling to the floor. A soaring pain shocked Gordons's body, as he saw the blood drip from his hand; the glass embedded inside the gaping wound, like a spear in a fish. He yanked the glass from his hands, letting out a wail. He turned his rage-induced eyes towards Deeks, who was clutched tightly beneath his mother's grip. His fingers danced across the floor, searching for the wooden handle of the shotgun. He clutched it tighter than he ever had done before, twirling it in his hands and aiming it at the pair.

"Nobody disobeys me." He hissed.

Deeks' heart beat erratically, and more forcefully than he had ever known it; as he lept forward out of his mother grip, knocking the shotgun out of his father's hand, and tackling him to the floor. He could hear his mother screaming his name, as he stumbled to his feet, gripping the shotgun in his hand, directing it at his father.

"Use it." Gordon provoked. "What are you waiting for, boy?" He didn't want to shoot him. What child ever wants to shoot their own father? "Go on boy! Use the damn gun! Pull the fucking trigger!"

Roberta felt the strong grip of Gordon's arms around her as she writhed beneath his touch once again.

"Come on boy!" He bellowed, "Be a man! Shoot me! Pull the trigger!"

Deeks trembled, still aiming the shotgun at his father. He didn't want to do it.

"Come on you rotten little turd! Pull it, or I'll snap her neck right here. Pull the damn trigger kid!"

He felt a pang of anger overwhelm him, and before he even knew what he was doing, he felt the kick back from the trigger.

Gordon groaned in agony, as he stared down at the river of blood that was pouring out of his leg.

"'I'm so sorry, Momma, I'm so sorry, so sorry…." Deeks' cried, his fingers relinquishing his hold on the gun, it falling to the floor with a tremendous thud. He was trembling, and whimpering in shock. He turned to his mother, who too was trembling; her hands covering her mouth. Tears rolled down her cheeks, one after one, leaving mascara stains in their tracks, as she let out the cry that she had been trying so desperately to stifle.

His mother rushed to his side, clutching him tightly, as if she hadn't seen him in years. She kissed the top of his head, exhaling in relief, before she turned to look at Gordon, who was still collapsed on the floor, clasping his leg; Deeks mirroring his mother's actions.

He followed her into the kitchen, as she wiped away her tears, dialing a number into the phone that sat upon the wall, who he assumed to be the emergency services.

He stood there in the middle of the kitchen, dazed. Everything was lined up so neatly, as it always was before his mother started cooking her famous lasagna. The clock still hung upon the wall, ticking away. Everything was normal. Except… he had shot his own father in the middle of the living room; and the purple tulips that usually sat on the counter, so bright and perky, had begun to wilt.

He hated the color purple. But Kensi loved it. And her loved her.

He glanced out into the crowd of spectators, talking amongst themselves whilst they waited for the ceremony to begin. He spotted the tornado that was Kat, Mindy, Mandy, Tiffany and Tiffany, and he smiled to himself. Although he no-so-secretly complained about them to his fiancée, he had to admit that he loved her friends… even if they were the most spritely, wild bunch of women that he knew.

He couldn't believe that it was finally happening. There had always been a small voice inside his head, telling him that they weren't going to make it. Even Tony DiNozzo had mentioned to him once that it was never going to work. But they were determined to try. They had overcome so much together, that the idea of getting married seemed like one of the easiest things for them to accomplish. Then again, it was just an idea. For a long while, a wedding had seemed like a far-off possibility for the two of them; between Kensi's recovery and catching bad guys, they barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone plan a wedding and actually get married.

Granted, it was a little different than what they had hoped for. They had only wanted a simple wedding. A very simple wedding. On the beach. At sunset. With those they cared for the most. But of course, not everything works out the way that you plan it; something which they had come to realize over the most recent months. Life was short, and they had to seize every opportunity they were given. So, when the option of a fancy wedding arose, they thought it would be foolish to turn it down. And thank god it wasn't their mothers planning it…

He loved his mother, and he loved Kensi's mother, but the two of them together could get rather… intense; and they had discovered throughout the course of Kensi's recovery. They had fussed and fussed and fussed over Kensi, to the point where even he was sick of them fussing over her. They always had to fuss over the inconsequential little things… But then again, both he and Kensi were only children, so who else did their mothers have to fuss over?

He looked towards the centre of the aisle in anticipation. Hetty and Nell had done an outstanding job at decorating the venue. There were white chairs, perfectly placed in two sections, to form an aisle down the middle; lined with a white carpet covered in rose petals. There were purple and white ribbons, and purple and white balloons spread about the grounds – tied to the backs of chairs, to the pillars of the reception, to the garden posts and direction signs. He didn't think they could have done any better if they tried. It was far from the worlds most perfect wedding, but they didn't care, because it was perfect for them.

He adjusted his tie once more, attempting to release the constricting feeling in his airway, as the music played. He glanced out onto the porch. He smiled at the thought of Kensi in her dress, walking down the middle of the aisle towards him. He knew that she would take his breath away; she always did. Whether she was in a wedding dress, or her iron maiden t-shirt – she was beautiful, and sexy, and all his.

The music continued to play, as his eyes wandered to the center of the aisle, as he waited for the love of his life. Where was she? Why wasn't she there?

Nell emerged from the inside of the reception, her eyes red and soaked from her tears; her body trembling. She ushered herself down the aisle, her head bowed down in an attempt to conceal the mascara stains on her cheeks.

Deeks watched her every move, his concern for her growing; so much so that he had failed to notice the two police officers that were following behind her. Their eyes were sunken, which accentuated their crestfallen faces; and expression that he was far too familiar with. The pull of his stomach knotted inside him, as they stood motionless, staring at him.

"We're so sorry to interrupt…" the first police office began.

"Are you Martin Deeks?" his partner asked, his eyes transfixed on Deeks.

Deeks stared at them, until his eyes became blurry and they were nothing more than silhouettes. Please don't say it. Please don't say it. Please don't say it. Please…

"We're so incredibly sorry, Mr Deeks…" the police officer choked, stifling a sob, "but there's been an accident…"

Oh god, no. Please. Not now. Not today. Not ever.

"Your fiancee… Miss Kensi Blye… I'm so sorry…"

They had to be kidding. They just had to. It couldn't be happening. No no. It wasn't happening. Not to him. How dare the universe do this.

"You're kidding, right?" He choked out, "please tell me you're kidding."

The police officer shook his head, looking down at his feet.

"She can't… this… she's… this… this… this can't be happening…" HE began, pacing back and forth around the altar.

He dreaded to look out onto the spectators now. He imagined their eyes, just staring back at him with looks of pity and despair. It was too much. Too much for him to handle, especially today.

"We're… we're… we're supposed to be getting married right now. Right now. We're supposed to be staring out lives together," his voice raising with every word. "You… you…. You can't come in here and tell me that the love of my life had died… you just… you just can't…"

"We're so sorry, Mr. Deeks…"

He choked back a sob, as he bolted for the door, yanking his tie off from around his neck, almost certain that he was about to suffocate. He approached a patch of grass, collapsing to his knees, sobbing.

He could hear the patter of footsteps behind him, as Sam and Callen emerged from the doorway, looking over at him. They gently shuffled towards him, as he looked up at the sky.

"How dare you!" He screamed. "How dare you take her away from me! You bastard! We were supposed to be getting married! We were supposed to be happy! How dare you take her away from me. How. Dare. You!"

He felt a pair of strong, toned arms wrap around him. He writhed under their touch, attempting to break free. He didn't want to be held. He didn't want anybody's arms wrapped around him but Kensi's.

"Let go of me!" Deeks yelled.

"Deeks… Deeks… calm down." Sam protested, tightening his grip.

He continued to fight against the strong arms holding him, until he was too tired to fight any more.

"Deeks…"

He choked out another sob, tears streaming down his face, as the guests gathered in the doorway, perplexed about what to do with themselves.

Sam loosened his grip on Deeks, who span around, embracing Sam more tightly than he had ever known, as the whimpers and sobs and cries of agony continued to emerge from the distraught man.

"It's okay, Deeks. It's okay. I've got you."