Author's Note: Not sure how I feel about this chapter. Although I did squeeze in some elements I quite enjoyed.

FIRST ATTEMPT: A TRADITIONAL CHURCH WEDDING

Chapter 2: Every bride is an angel on her wedding day.

He'd frantically scrubbed his hands clean in the hospital restroom, but there was crusted blood laying in some of the superfine cracks and creases of his skin, a stark contrast of rusty crimson against the white knuckles of his tightly clenched fists. He was gripping the steering wheel so fiercely that his fingers had begun to go numb. And there was no reason for it, since he'd already brought the truck to a stop and cut the engine. They weren't driving anywhere, just sitting there, outside a run-down house.

But the alternative, he supposed was to punch out the driver's side window or find something else to smash. Just as clenching his teeth was the only alternative to screaming in rage.

Chris LaSalle had never considered himself to be a man with a bad tempter. But he had never been so downright furious before. This, which was supposed to be the happiest day of his life, had turned out to be the most enraging. Rather than exchanging vows with the woman he loved, he'd had his hands drenched in his best man's -his best friend's- blood. Holding his suit jacket to the gushing wound in the older man's stomach as Merri made an urgent call for an ambulance, her voice so calm that Chris knew she'd simply shut down her emotional self to avoid the pain and fear.

Three hours in surgery and an uncertain prognosis, a small wedding's worth of guests all dressed in formal wear sitting in pensive silence in the OR waiting room. Laurel crying quietly, being held in first Loretta's then Merri's arms, then passed off to Loretta again, when finally their absent members contacted them, informing them they'd found the bastard who'd shot their boss-friend-mentor-father-figure and left him for dead.

Thank god, the asshole had been an idiot. Amateur hour at its best. He hadn't used a kill shot on Pride. Hadn't checked to make sure the man was dead. Had left prints behind. And was currently sitting at his own personal computer in his own home, trying to claim the reward those anarchist militia bastards had placed on King's head.

"Ya sure it's him? He's in there?" Chris asked.

/100% guaranteed that the creep who shot Pride is in the house. I'm pretendin' to be the contact for the bounty, stallin' him as we speak./

Patton Plame's normally cheerful tone was all business at the moment. Chris exchanged a look with the passenger sitting beside him, his angelically beautiful bride, who should've been his wife by now. Merri's expression was strained, much like he imagined his own was, a mixture of sorrow, pain and unadulterated fury.

And determination.

"Thanks, Patton," she said, terminating the call before reaching for one of Chris' hands. He let his death grip relax, his hands slip from the steering wheel, interlacing his fingers with hers, feeling the reassuring warmth and strength of her slender hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss the smooth skin along her knuckles.

"Let's do this," she said.

Luckily, Chris kept some tac gear in the box in the bed of his truck. The metal locker was generally used for carpenters, construction workers, electricians and the like to store tools. But no one had said it couldn't be used to store the tools of his trade. He got up into the bed, adding a couple more stains to his tuxedo pants, and unlocked the metal storage container. He handed his bride one of the bullet-proof vests. It wasn't her oddly form-fitting one (that he wondered where the hell she'd obtained a woman's tailored Kevlar vest, that they even made that sort of thing), but she slipped it on without complaint, even as it visibly crushed her large breasts when she tightened it enough to lay snug against her abdomen. He exchanged his suit vest for his own Kevlar one, making quick work of the straps before reaching for his shotgun and package of shells.

"You got another one of those?"

He looked down at Merri, slightly confused. She always preferred her Glock. Precision, she said. Might as well be waving a large stick with nails around with a blunt instrument like a shotgun. He raised his eyebrows at her in a questioning look.

"I feel like using a blunt object."

He shrugged. He could sympathize. Someone had hurt King. It was unacceptable. They would be punished severely.

"Yes, I sure do," he said with a grin.

"I need a thigh holster, too. And a knife."

God, his woman knew how to gear up. He watched in utter shock as she unsheathed the combat knife and took it to the hem of her thousand-dollar wedding dress, placing a small cut in the cloth near her right ankle. Her skilled (in so many ways that he was very familiar with) hands took hold of the fabric and proceeded to rip the dress up to her hip, exposing one of her gorgeous legs, which was currently clad in a filmy white stocking being held up by a garter belt. A lace one, from the peak he had of it at her hip. He licked his suddenly dry lips, as he watched her fasten the contrastingly black, coarse webbing around her toned thigh and secure her Glock in the holster. When she was done she straightened and reached a hand out to him, but he could only manage to stare at her blankly.

"Chris," she said impatiently. "Gun."

He shook himself out of the temporary trance his sexy bride had placed him in, and handed her the shotgun, and a belt of spare shells. She shrugged the strip of shotgun shells on over her shoulder bandolier-style, pumped one into the chamber of the gun, and stared at him expectantly.

Chris had never seen anything so downright hot in his entire life as Meredith Brody, wearing a silk wedding dress that hugged her curves and was torn up one side to her hip, revealing a leg erotically clad in white nylon, lacy garter and gun holster, sporting a black bullet-proof vest and wielding a shotgun in her freshly manicured (a pre-wedding indulgence) hands. Her artistically swept up and pinned hair was somehow still impeccable, little silk flowers and all.

Despite all of the anger and anxiety over King's being attacked and severely wounded, Chris found himself growing quite hard over the sight of his would-be-bride in all her badassery.

He'd have been laughing or dancing with his wife right now (or dragging her off someplace for a different sort of adrenaline-fueled, the blissful, happy kind of adrenaline-fueled, quickie), if this dumb bastard hadn't gone after his friend, interrupting his wedding and hurting the man he loved like family.

"Ya ruined your dress," he observed as he hopped down from the bed of the truck.

"It was already stained with blood and tears," Merri said flatly, which instantly sobered both of their moods.

"Let's get this bastard," Chris said.

He'd heard it said that 'every bride is an angel on her wedding day'.

And Chris had to agree. Merri Brody was an angel. The blood-spattered avenging variety, that was. And that was fine by him. He couldn't love her any less for protecting her friends so fiercely, for being able and willing to fight for them, for him. Having a partner in life that he knew would have his back through thick and thin, through burnt casseroles and leaky pipes, house payments they couldn't quite afford, and gun fights with murdering bastards... It gave a man a sense of security money couldn't buy. Only love could.

And so it was easy to kick down the front door and stride blindly into potentially deadly circumstances as his badass bride circled around the back of the house, ensuring their prey would not escape them. He cleared the front room, hearing his partner's voice announce her own progress over the coms they'd hastily stuck in their ears, as she mirrored his movements, pushing ever closer in towards one another. He'd forgotten how easily they worked together in the field, an experience he hadn't had the pleasure of since announcing their engagement and being banned from doing this sort of raid together anymore. He saw the flash of white and black as she crossed the end of the narrow hall he was currently slowly progressing down one careful step at a time, trying not to hit a creaky floorboard in the old house.

Not that they had to worry. There was offensively loud techno music coming from behind one of the doors, vibrating it in its hinges and rattling the cracked glass pictures against the wall. It took him a minute or two, clearing a couple empty (but for piles of junk) rooms but Chris soon pinpointed the offending door. He put his back to the wall beside it, waited for Merri to arrive after clearing her end of the building. God, she was a gorgeous disparity, her formal wear overlain with tactical gear, a bright spot, almost glowing in the hallway with faded, grimy wall paper and a waterline the owners had never even attempted to scrub clean after the flooding. Her mouth was set in a firm line, her beautiful eyes all business as she adjusted her grip on the shotgun, and maneuvered into position to cover him when he breached the door.

She gave him a nod, and he gently pushed on the slightly ajar wood, until a scrawny, shirtless man came into view. He was sitting at a desk, parked in front of a laptop, typing away, doubtless trying to convince the man he thought controlled the bounty on Pride's head to pony up the cash. But he was in actuality chatting with Patton, whom was serving as distraction for the shotgun-wielding bride and groom who were about to put some serious hurt on the would-be-assassin's pathetic, bony butt.

Chris glanced back at his blushing bride. He thought perhaps the term wasn't meant to be applied to the flush put on her cheeks by adrenaline and determined ferocity. But he found it extremely fetching on her nonetheless.

'One suspect inside,' Chris mouthed at her and she nodded again. Go-Time.

A quick application of his foot to the door and it swung open, not quite hitting the interior wall for all of the debris on the floor slowing its momentum, but it was enough for Chris to move inside swinging around to clear the left side of the room as Merri came in directly behind him, covering the right. Their suspect barely had time to jump in his wooden shaker-style chair before she'd stepped forward firmly grabbing the back of it and yanking hard, causing the scrawny, shirtless man to tumble backward along with the piece of furniture. His landing upon the old, wide floorboards would've been a lot harder if he hadn't landed in a pile of discarded, obviously dirty clothing. Chris briefly thanked God he had Merri diligently straightening out his bachelor ways, or else he wasn't so sure he wouldn't've one day wound up like this creep, wallowing in his own filth. And if he ever slipped, he couldn't blame her for doing precisely what she was now to the pathetic asshole who'd shot their friend.

Merri placed the toe of her dirty, stained white satin shoe under the perp's side, drew it back and half-kicked, half-pushed the man, forcing him to roll over as she shouted at him to get onto his stomach and place his hands on the back of his head.

"What the hell? Who the hell are you?" The prone man shouted, finally overcoming his shock enough to grow angry, glaring up at the woman dressed like the Bride of Rambo. His slate-grey eyes bugged out of his head as he took in the sight of his assailants. Chris had to admit, Merri did look quite terrifying at the moment, brandishing the shotgun and a malevolent grin, her torn wedding dress spattered with blood. She was also flashing more than a little bare skin and a shapely, shapely leg. Something was probably wrong with him, but fuck, he just couldn't get over how hot it was.

"NCIS," Merri said. "You shot our friend and ruined our wedding day. And now you're going to pay for it."

Chris forced his eyes up from the creamy naked skin visible between stocking, garter and thigh holster, alarmed a little by her words and tone of voice. But her eyes were as sharp, cool and collected as ever when she was in agent-mode. She wasn't about to do something... illegal. Not that he would blame her for it, or wouldn't help her cover it up. Hell, he knew several places where they could dump the body. He was about to say as much when Merri began reading their prisoner his Miranda Rights.

"I'm placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of NCIS Special Agent Dwayne Pride. You have the right to remain silent..."

Chris wrenched the man's hands behind his back, putting the cuffs on a little tighter than strictly necessary, before hauling the failed assassin to his feet. Yes. Attempted Murder. Failed Assassin. The doctors might not yet be confident enough to tell family and friends that Pride would make a full recovery. But he and Merri, they knew how tough the man was, knew that he'd be okay.

Because there was no way Dwayne Pride would miss their wedding.

They both stood in front of his truck for a few moments, puzzling over what to do next as they held the prisoner between them, Chris toting the perp's laptop (all the evidence they needed) under his other arm. There were so many reasons that they wouldn't be putting him with them in the cab of the truck. And there was no way they'd call the authorities and hand him over. He was theirs.

"We can throw 'im in the back," Chris suggested, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

"What's to prevent this piece of trash from jumping out?" Merri said, giving their pathetic charge a glare and firm shake.

"Cuff him ta the box?"

Merri seemed to ponder this for a moment, then gave a little shrug of her bare shoulders. Chris opened the tailgate, then together they picked up the scrawny man. How had the pathetic creature ever gotten the jump on King? It just wasn't right, but the seasoned agent could hardly have been expecting to be shot in the back, a through and through in his lower abdomen while he was getting ready to go see his friends married off. Said friends tossed the sorry-excuse for an assassin, sorry excuse for a man in Chris' opinion, quite a bit more roughly than strictly necessary into the bed of the truck, garnering a loud thump as the vehicle rocked and the prisoner moaned that they'd dislocated his shoulder. Chris jumped up and secured the man before he and Merri got back into the cab of the truck and sat there in a silence that was as heavy and smothering as a wool blanket.

And it all seemed rather anticlimactic, taking their perpetrator down so easily. But he should be thankful that it hadn't been a difficult apprehension, that it hadn't been violent or messy, that no one had been hurt. No one else had been hurt. Just King, the man who had saved his life a decade ago, had taken in him and treated him like a son, and a friend, had taught him everything there was to know about being an honorable man, about living a meaningful life. No, it was only Pride lying in the hospital, fighting for his life.

He tried to start the truck but his hands were shaking too badly. It was as if he'd been holding back all of his emotions, focusing on the anger, using it to shore up the dam. And now that he'd succeeded in his mission, he'd captured the man who'd hurt King, the dam had broken. And the deluge was too much.

"Chris?"

The very brief-lived inner battle between hiding his sorry state from his bride and turning to her for the absolute comfort that only she seemed able to bestow, was cut short by Merri's concerned voice. He turned to her, and she was already enfolding him in her arms, cradling him against her as he added more tears to the stained satin of her formerly white wedding dress. She rubbed his back, kissed the top of his head as he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly to him, pressing his cheek to her chest and letting the steady rhythm of her heartbeat soothe him.

When he'd finally calmed and straightened, feeling a nascent cramp in his back and neck from the odd angle of cuddling, he found himself staring into his bride's tear-stained cheeks. Guilt stabbed him in the heart. How could he not realize what she'd been doing. She'd been so intent on having his back, protecting him as he went off half-cocked on his mission of vengeance, comforting him when his heartache finally got the best of him... Merri had been suppressing all of her own feelings to take care of him.

"Oh, darlin'..." He cupped her face in his hands, swiped the wetness from her cheeks, stared into her deep chocolate eyes. And then they were kissing, a hungry, life-affirming embrace. Not sexual. But not chaste either. Just purposeful, searching and finding, confirming the lifelong bond they'd forged. Their love. When they finally broke apart, there was a slight smile curving Merri's lips, and her eyes no longer seemed so sad.

"As soon as King's back on his feet," Chris said. "We're havin' a redo."

Merri sighed as he started the truck, picking at the ragged slit she'd added to her wedding gown.

"I'm going to need a new dress."

"Nah." Chris winked at her. "That's the perfect one."

She narrowed her eyes at him, obviously recognizing his twisted sense of humor when it was about to be deployed.

"What?" He flashed her his most charming of grins. "It suits ya."

"It suits me?" He glanced at her as he drove, feeling relieved to have this normal playful moment with the woman he loved, but also a little guilty given everything that had happened that day.

"Yup. Classy and stylish, but also completely badass. Ya've gotta accessorize with the shotgun, though."

Merri laughed. And the sound made his heart a thousand times lighter. Yes, they should've been husband and wife, celebrating their union with their friends at this very moment. But life was never what you expected. And it had led him to her. So, in the end, he couldn't stay angry with the universe. And what did it matter if they were married? It didn't change much of anything, just a few legalities.

"Not traditional for the bride to be the one armed, but we can give the Shotgun Wedding thing a try," she said. "Pride might get a kick out of it."

"Yeah. He will."

A/N: I think there is probably one more chapter to this 'attempt' to wrap up loose ends... But I was hoping to avoid writing a hospital scene. They get tiresome/repetitive after a while... And then we'll see if they can make it down the aisle on their next attempt.