A/N: Hi. I'm back. Again. Usual excuses, work blah, blah, blah. Everyone is quitting blah, blah, blah. Anyway, hope you all are still enjoying this.
I've been working on this bit by bit trying to keep true to the characters and of course have Deeks be his usual awesome self while throwing in a reasonable dose of whumpage. Again, hopefully that came through. At this point in the story, timelines when switching between Deeks and the rest of the team aren't the same.
I tend think my titles are slightly brilliant but then I often also think they're somewhat stupid and cheesy. I'm not sure if anyone gets the reasoning behind them, but just know that I put a lot of effort into everything I write, including chapter titles, despite lack of knowledge, experience, or dreaded writer's block.
On a side note I have recently and somewhat surprisingly gotten my younger sister hooked on NCIS: LA. She has solemnly declared that she will marry Deeks, or 'Geeks', as she calls him. Let's just say it's a good thing that Eric Christian Olsen is not residing anywhere near Indiana.
Disclaimer: Yeah right.
Thanks to those who have reviewed as well as those who have followed and favorited. It makes my little heart go pitter-patter.
We Got the Blues
The moment Nell stopped speaking Kensi was ready to track Doug down and beat the truth out of him if necessary. Forget the questioning, this man obviously knew something and she was going to find out what it was. The rage that had been burning in her stomach and building steadily came to a boil. She was sick and tired of people hurting her partner. This time someone was going to pay, preferably slowly and very painfully.
"Kens, just slow down for a minute." Callen called as she continued for the mission's front door. She brushed off the calming hand placed on her forearm, fixing him with a look of incredulity.
"Callen this guy might know something about where Deeks is, we have to find him."
"I know. And we will." Kensi opened her mouth to object but Callen raised a finger and continued. "If we go in there and just arrest this guy and start asking about Max Gentry or Marty Deeks chances are somebody will get word to the Gelitz brothers. If Doug did help out his uncle, we don't know that he won't find some way of tipping them off again. Sometimes family trumps everything." Kensi huffed out a sound, throwing her hands up in exasperation.
"So what, we just tail him and wait til he decides to visit whatever dump these two have holed up in?" Callen paused for a moment to consider and then turned to share a conspiratorial glance with his partner.
"I'm sure we can dig up a reason to bring him in, say as the LAPD?" Sam said in an innocent tone. "Suspicion of aiding and abetting known criminals sounds pretty good to me. I doubt even Douglas is loyal enough to risk going to prison for a couple of shmucks like his uncles." He glanced balefully at the screenshot of Doug, who was smiling charmingly while he talked with Deeks' nurse.
"Looks like we've got a little bit of backstopping to do or do you think we can get away with previous aliases?" Eric pondered, still fiddling with his tablet. "Ooh, I wonder if Hetty still has those uniforms from the last time 'cause it was pretty hard to get one large enough to fit Sam." Nell grabbed his arm, heading for the stairs away from Sam's focused glare. "Sam are you a si–" Whatever else Eric might have said was cut off with a squeak and a protesting 'hey'.
"We'll start making up some ID's for you guys. Are we looking at two or three LAPD Detectives?" Nell called from above.
"Three." Sam answered decisively. "I'm sure a picture of Kensi as a lady cop will brighten up Deeks' day once we find him." Kensi growled as Callen snickered, her fist a blur of motion as it met with his bicep.
"Geez, Kensi." He choked as he failed to completely stifle a moan. "No wonder Deeks is so afraid of you." Sam simply shook his head and muttered something that sounded like 'pitiful'.
"Guys." Kensi protested. Normally she'd be cracking jokes right along with them but normally her partner wasn't riddled with bullet holes and god knows where probably being beaten half to death. She never thought she'd miss his stupid jokes and shaggy hair but right now she would do anything to see his scruffy face again. It didn't even matter if he knew or how much fun he had at her expense, so long as he came back to the team in reasonably good condition. Which was becoming less and less likely the longer they stood here doing nothing.
"Kensi!" She jumped, reaching for her gun on instinct before she noticed Callen watching her with a concerned expression, his hands raised defensively. "Hey, easy." Kensi flushed at having been distracted so easily.
"I just don't think you guys are taking this seriously enough." She said in a calm, slow voice, her back uncomfortably straight as if to prove that she was behaving normally.
"Are you sure you're up to this?" Callen said in a muted voice, ignoring her efforts to redirect his attention. Over his shoulder Kensi could see Sam staring at one of his origami creatures with undue focus. "You need to let me know if your head is in the right place because chances are that when we talk to this guy, we're not gonna like what he has to say. I need to know that you're not going to do something rash." Kensi snorted despite herself.
"Oh right, like you're one to talk about rash behavior." Kensi said scornfully.
"That was not rash behavior, that is called being proactive." Callen stated firmly.
"Yeah, I'm sure that's the term Hetty used in her debriefing." Sam added sarcastically. The other two agents turned to him with annoyed expressions. "What? I can't contribute?" Callen narrowed his eyes while Kensi let out a huff of exasperation. Sam rolled his eyes and began folding a post-it note into little squares, muttering under his breath about 'touchy partners'.
"Seriously though, Kensi. Can you do this?" Callen asked again, his voice lowered to a whisper so even Sam wouldn't be able to hear from a few feet away.
"Yes." Kensi answered immediately and decisively. "G, I have to be there. I need to know that my partner's ok…and make the people responsible pay if he's not." She added the last part reluctantly, as though even mentioning that Deeks might be in any worse shape than when she last saw him, would make it inevitable. "I need to do something, or I'll go crazy waiting and wondering. You'd do the same for Sam." Although she tried to keep her voice steady, the fine tremors of emotion were audible and it was clear that the admission had cost her. Callen somewhat awkwardly patted her shoulder, keeping his gaze anywhere but on her face.
"Ok, but we follow my lead, alright?" Kensi nodded. Her eyes were suspiciously shiny which made Callen fidget and glance around in obvious discomfort. Sam nodded towards her, giving his partner a pointed glance. Callen merely looked confused until with a heavy roll of his eyes, Sam made a circle with his arms and squeezed the air between them.
"Seriously G?" He said when it became clear that Callen either wasn't interpreting his gestures or purposely ignoring them. "You're unbelievable." With a sigh Sam pushed Callen out of the way and wrapped his large arms securely around Kensi's torso, giving her a solid and comforting pat on the back. "Don't worry Kens, we'll get your mutt back."
Marty Deeks lifted his head slowly, muscles straining with the simple effort. He felt a drop of sweat trickle down his forehead, stopping to dangle on the end of his nose for a moment. Jerry was seated across from him, peering kindly at him as he rolled a small pill between his forefinger and thumb. Marty averted his gaze as though it would make the pill disappear and shifted slightly in an attempt to ease the cramped feeling in his back as his vertebrae rubbed against each other.
"Come on Max, you already used up seven. I know it's getting worse. You can't even sit straight, you can't breathe." Jerry paused in his evaluation to give Marty a once over. "Man, you're shaking like it's twenty degrees in here." He shook the orange bottle which was held, uncapped in his other hand. "A few of these and you won't even remember what pain feels like." Marty croaked out a very painful laugh.
"Oh Jerry, if you think this is bad then you never met my father. This?", Marty gestured to his crimson dotted torso, "This is nothing compared to what he could do. So I guess what I'm saying is, 'bring it on'." He grinned, the gesture tight and angry. In truth the area around his bullet wounds had increased to an unrelenting, fiery burn which tapered off into a lung squeezing ache around his ribs. Letting the grin drop, he allowed himself to slouch a little further, surreptitiously pressing against the broken slat. The movement had a dual purpose; not only was he slowly but surely loosening the bit of wood but also hopefully convincing Jerry that he was nearing complete exhaustion, not an entirely ridiculous notion.
"Besides, you're just gonna hand me over to some nice drug lord who I'm sure can be so much more creative than you when it comes to making people talk." Marty paused to take a shallow breath. "Helps when you have an expense account…and partners who can actually be described with the term homo sapiens." He flicked his eyes towards Tom who was pacing frenetically a few feet from the door. The room was so small that he had to turn every ten or so feet to avoid bumping into a wall which made him look a bit like a wind- up toy.
"My point being, I don't really see the benefit of me talking." Marty finished, focusing his gaze on Jerry once again. He slid a few inches lower and watched the other man smirk ever so slightly before he was able to hide it. Sadistic SOB. Marty bit back a hiss of pain that threatened to erupt every time he moved. What he wouldn't give for a couple of the Vicodin currently melting in Jerry's palm. Of course if he was making extravagant wishes, he might as well go for not being shot at all. He must have really ticked somebody off in the great beyond, Marty thought, because he was certain that normal people didn't deal with the kind of crap he got thrown at him.
"Max?" Marty blinked slowly, wondering for a moment why someone was calling him Max and, more importantly, why it smelled like Monty did right before a long overdue bath.
Someone was talking again...oh, right, Jerry. This had happened a few other times in the last couple hours; sudden lapses in attention where Marty completely lost track of his surroundings. It was a delightful reprieve since the amount of pain seemed to diminish with all other stimuli but Marty also recognized that his decreasing awareness did not point to a successful escape. He wasn't foolish enough to think that his reflexes were anywhere near normal or that Jerry and Tom wouldn't put up a decent fight.
His entire plan of escape was dependent on the chance that one of the brothers might need to leave. Personally he was hoping it would be Jerry as he was undoubtedly the brighter and fitter of the two. At some point they'd need the bathroom and Marty was fairly certain his deluxe accommodations didn't come equipped with a functioning plumbing system.
He shifted again another all too real moan escape. Jerry stared back, apparently unmoved by his pain. The world tilted suddenly and Marty reflexively grabbed onto the edges of the chair. Distantly he heard a wheezing noise as the dingy room continued to swirl around him and after a moment he realized it was the sound of his own panicked breathing.
"That doesn't sound very good, Max." Jerry observed, continuing to stare at him with a vaguely concerned but mostly detached expression. Marty would have glared but he was too busy keeping his lungs from collapsing on each other. "Max, Max…" He felt a warm hand gently run through his hair, ending in a caress at the nape of his neck. It only added to the increasing feeling of nausea that threatened to bubble up from Marty's stomach. "Don't be stupid." Jerry finished with both hands firmly resting on his shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. If possible, Marty felt even sicker. He didn't normally enjoy being felt up by psychopaths but it was made so much worse by the fact that he hadn't completely hated Jerry the way he did Tom.
"Never thought I'd say this, but Tom just keeps looking better and better." Marty muttered weakly. Unlike his brother, Jerry barely reacted, instead keeping his palms slowly rubbing back and forth across the thin material of Marty's t-shirt and occasionally a bit of his neck. Vaguely he wondered where Jerry had stashed his meds since the other man's hands were obviously otherwise occupied. Realizing he must be even more out it than he thought, Marty gave himself a mental shake and an order to pay better attention.
"You should realize by know, Max, that I am not my brother. Your little games and insults won't work with me." As he spoke Marty felt his fingers creep down his neck and across his chest where they suddenly dug in. A fresh trickle of blood seeped beneath the bandage which Marty could feel clinging uncomfortably to his skin, never quite getting the chance to dry completely. He hadn't lost a significant amount of blood yet but given his already weakened state it felt as though several pints had spilled from his abdomen.
"Then I guess you won't care when I tell you this reminds of the time I accidentally got a lap dance…except he was prettier." There was a brief moment when he felt Jerry lean slightly closer and he thought perhaps he'd taken it a step too far. Then Tom let out a growl of rage that had both of the other men glancing up in surprise.
"This isn't working! You said you could make him talk and he isn't." As Tom stalked forward he jerked a gun from the waistband of his pants.
"Tom, what are you doing?" Jerry asked, sounding as though he was speaking to a misbehaving child but Marty could hear the faint thread of worry beneath. He rounded the chair, one hand lifted in a universal halting gesture. Marty personally thought this wasn't the brightest idea since Tom currently looked a bit like a rabid dog preparing to charge.
"He's not going to talk. I say we just shoot him and get what we can." Tom answered, his eyes glued to Marty.
"Tom, we agreed–"
"I didn't agree to nothing!" Tom screamed. Jerry stumbled back a step as the gun's focus turned to him.
"Don't do anything stupid–" Jerry's warning was cut short as Tom came rushing at him in a clumsy tackle. Even though he was much taller, Jerry still slammed noisily against the dirty wall. Tom swung the gun towards Jerry's head who feinted to the right just before it made contact with the wall. He didn't miss the second time and Marty couldn't help but wince when the metal ripped a deep gash across the other man's temple, sending him to the floor in a boneless heap.
Taking advantage of Tom's momentary distraction and Jerry's unconscious state, Marty reached behind his back and wrenched the splintered slat from the chair with a jerk that sent a deep spasm of pain through his chest. He got to his feet but found himself unable to straighten fully and stood bent at the waist, heaving in deeps breaths to clear his suddenly hazy vision. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tom turn towards him and he realized he was making a sound similar to a raging rhinoceros. Marty didn't give the other man time to react. Before Tom could completely raise the gun still clenched in his fist, Marty was on him, plunging the uneven bit of wood into his stomach. Tom let out a gurgle of pain and stumbled back in surprise. Not pausing for a moment to consider the horrendous pain now coursing through his stomach, he kicked Tom's legs from beneath him and grasped his arm, yanking it to the side until he heard a sickening pop. Tom howled, the gun dropping from his now loosened fingers.
Marty paused for a moment over Tom's inert body and watched as his eyes glazed over with pain. Quickly he patted down the man's pockets before moving on to Jerry. Neither man was carrying a phone. Cursing them both silently, he snatched up Tom's abandoned gun.
"I'd say I'm sorry man but" Marty shrugged, "We both know I wouldn't mean it." He leaned over Tom again and patted his cheek, mumbling, "Stupid cat never won." Carefully, and taking far longer than he cared to acknowledge, Marty stumbled to his feet and headed for the door. Amazingly it opened on the first try. Clearly criminal masterminds these men were not; Marty chuckled dryly although there was no one to hear him.
As he stumbled out of the room, he absently noted that his hand was thinly coated in blood, though whether it was his or Tom's he wasn't sure. "Huh." He muttered, wiping his palm on his shirt. The material was sticky beneath his skin. "That can't be good." He said to himself, noting that the trail of red had begun to seep into the waistband of his pants.
There was a short entryway that led to the front door which, judging by the rusty barely attached bolt, was not locked. After a little maneuvering and tugging which left Marty feeling breathless, he found himself standing on a patchy little square of grass. Actually it was more mud than lawn, featuring the tiny shack of a house that had been his recent abode.
A slight gust of wind caught him in the face, ruffling his hair and making him shiver as it hit the moist fabric of his t-shirt. It was nearly dark out, just a hint of dusky blue highlighting the ground. There were no streetlights, or at least not ones that were functioning which meant it would soon be pitch black out.
Unfortunately Marty recognized the area and understood why no one had been bothered by the obvious sounds of someone being beaten. Casual violence was practically a way of life in this little rundown neighborhood. Even now the two or three people who had braved the outside world didn't seem terribly bothered by the sight of a heavily bleeding man with a gun, tripping from an abandoned house.
It was just the same as when he was a kid getting beaten on by his dad…nobody had bothered to see if little bruised Martin was okay. Or wondered at the matching fist shaped tattoos he and his mother had often wore to the store. God, it was a good thing Kensi couldn't hear inside his head…his partner would never let him live it down.
He shook his head a couple times to clear the melancholy thoughts and only ended up making his head spin that much more. Drunkenly, he headed off down a dark alleyway, praying that his sense of direction was still intact.
A/N: And there we are, the latest chapter in all its glory.
For those of you who also watch the original NCIS, is anyone else mourning the news that Michael Weatherly is leaving after this season? (Apologies if you've just heard this news).
On a minor note, for anyone wondering about the use of homo sapiens, after a bit of research I discovered that the term is both singular and plural. If I'm wrong about this, my deepest apologies. I realize that I apologize a lot...I'm sorry...
All descriptions of Deeks' injuries/pain come from either my imagination or my hazy memories of a painful abdominal surgery.