Author's Note: First, thank you for the continued kind words of encouragement. They are very much appreciated.
A few quick story notes here: you might want to go back and read the last couple sections of chapter 15 (starting from when Kensi gets to the safe house). A small edit was done. It's nothing major but it helps feed into this chapter.
Second, in this chapter, I am taking some massive creative liberties with Deeks' past. I'm sure the show will go a different way, but it felt important to address his childhood. I hope you like and understand the direction I went here.
Finally, as of this part, the K/D relationship takes a significant (though not graphic) romantic step forward. For those who have no interest in the relationship, but only the partnership, I apologize. I feel as though I've earned the ability to pair these two, but I certainly understand the disappointment if you would have preferred that path not be taken. I hope you enjoy this chapter just the same.
EDITED TO ADD: Due to an unexpected issue, chapter 17 will be delayed by a week. It should be posted by July 4th at the latest. Apologies in advance.
Again, thank you.
"How'd he sleep?" Callen asks as he enters the safe house with Sam. The two of them had gone back to their individual homes for a quick nap a few hours earlier. They'd wanted to stay in case anything had gone down with Deeks, but Nate has made it clear that this deprograming wouldn't take place within one session.
Or within one day.
He's insistent that they go slow with Deeks, try not to overwhelm him. If they do, if they force him to become Deeks again before he's ready, it won't be anymore real to him than the Jimmy Reese persona is.
Eventually, for this to work, he has to remember not because he's being told to do so, but because he wants to do so. Because he needs to do so.
"Not well," Kensi replies, yawning as she speaks. She tips a cup of coffee back to her lips and takes a hefty swig from it.
"And you?" Sam asks. "Did you sleep at all?" He offers her a bag with two chocolate doughnut bars in it. She accepts it gladly, breaks off half of one, and swallows it almost whole.
"Thanks. And yes, I slept," she replies.
"Don't worry," Nate assures them as he enters holding a cup of coffee of his own. "Hetty and I made sure that she got at least a couple of hours in. Not that she didn't kick and scream a little."
"Oh, I bet she threw one hell of a temper tantrum," Sam chuckles, looking over at Kensi as he does so. She rewards his quip with a dramatic roll of her eyes and then pushes away the bag with the rest of the doughnuts.
"Where's Hetty now?" Callen queries, glancing around.
"Back at Ops," Kensi answers. "Briefing Eric. And Director Vance, I'm sure."
"Is she okay with us beginning without her?" Callen asks.
"She is," Nate confirms.
"So what's Deeks been doing if he hasn't been sleeping?" Sam asks. His eyes are on the TV screen, which shows Deeks hunched over, looking as if he's reading something.
"Not a lot. He's spent most of the night pacing back and forth in there. About ten minutes ago, he finally picked up his mom's journal. He hasn't said a word since he started reading it," Kensi replies.
"You left it with him? Callen questions, his doubt clear.
"I told her to," Nate inserts. "That book, it's full of his mothers' words, her memories. If anything is going to feel like the truth right now, it's that journal."
She's terrified. Scared out of her freaking mind. It's one thing to love someone enough to promise each other now and forever. It's a whole other thing to be bringing new life into the world together.
And yet, here she is, eight months pregnant and ready to pop.
For Jillian Marie Brandel – formally known as Jillian Marie Deeks – of Reseda, California, it's a little late to be worried about whether or not she and Gordy are ready for this. They had damn well better be.
Especially since Martin or Megan is coming soon. Like, tonight soon, she thinks.
She's lying in the full-sized bed that she shares with Gordy in their tiny two-bedroom apartment. The square footage of this place is absurd – less than six hundred feet total – but for two kids who grew up poor on the bad side of town – it's home and it's paradise.
Besides, as Gordy always likes to say in that super corny tone of his, "All we need is each other, baby."
Gordy is like that. Romantic and sweet. His daddy was an abusive jerk with a misogynistic streak a mile long. Her daddy was an absentee drunk. It's always been funny to both of them that they've always wanted what the other had and hated – she wanted a father to be around, he wished his would go the hell away.
She wonders what kind of parents they'll be. She wonders if all parents start out with hopes and dreams a mile long. She wonders where things go wrong and if things already do, in fact, go wrong. Around these parts, they sure seem to.
"Baby," Gordy says, his fingers weaving into hers. "You all right?" He's half asleep which causes his voice to slur. One might think him drunk, but Gordy's never been much of a drinker. Maybe a beer or two if he goes out with his buddies after work, but rarely if ever more than that.
"Yeah," she whispers, and then winces. Yup, the baby is coming tonight. At first, she'd thought it was just one of those Braxton-Hicks things that Chelsea from next door had warned her about (and Chelsea should know; she has six kids already and she's only twenty-three), but the contractions have been getting closer and closer together for the last hour. She's dead certain that it's time. "But I think maybe we should head to the hospital."
His eyes fly open. It's almost comical, and she can't stop the smile that forms over the top of the grimace she's wearing. "Now?" he asks.
"Now."
And then he's up. It's so wonderfully clichéd. He dashes around like a madman, going in every direction. When he finally returns, his wavy blonde hair is going every which way and his shirt is on inside out.
"Take a breath, Gordy. We can do this," she tells him. She reaches out and takes his hand, squeezes it tight. Almost immediately, he seems to relax.
"So," he says with a nervous laugh. "Last chance to get your bet in."
"Marty," she laughs. "We're definitely having a Marty."
"All right. So I'm getting a boy tonight, huh?"
"Yes, you are."
She's taken no more than a step inside the door of the bedroom before he throws the journal at her. "What the fuck is that?" he demands as the book hits the wall next to her and falls to the ground.
"I slept well, too, thank you for asking," she comments dryly before leaning down to pick up the journal. She sets it back down on the bed. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I'm trapped in a little room and like my head is being fucked with."
"You know," she tells him, not showing any intention of coming any closer to him. At least not yet. "In all of our time working together, I think I've heard you say that word maybe five times. I'm usually the…potty mouth of the two of us."
He points at the journal. "What is it?"
"Letters your mother wrote. To you."
"I don't…I don't have a mother."
"Of course you do," she replies. "Do you think you were hatched?" Her words are wildly inappropriate right now and yet she can't stop them from spilling out. It's amazing to her that that this absurd Jimmy Reese persona, which appears to have been pieced together with duct tape (or blood and heroin in this case) is still holding together – if only slightly now.
His lip quirks up in a hint of a smile, and for a moment, she thinks that he's going to fire back a typical Deeks response. But then, as if realizing that he doesn't actually have an answer to her question, he instead stammers, "No."
"Good answer," she nods. "Now, you think maybe you're ready to talk?"
But then he shakes his head, almost violently. "No," he says again. " This is a waste of time. I'm not this Deeks guy. This is all just a…it's just one giant mind-fuck. I know who I am. I'm Jimmy Reese and –"
"And seven months ago, I was Kara Barstow."
He looks confused for a beat, and then, within the space of a few seconds, his face morphs into something much uglier. Something which can only be called rage mixed with fear. It's a strange look for him – one that seems to age him considerably. She doesn't have much time to dwell on it, however, because just moments later, he lunges at her, hands reaching towards her throat.
Far more rested than he is now, she easily evades him. He stumbles forward, collapsing into a graceless forward heap upon the carpeted floor. She's behind him quickly, yanking his arms back, and pressing a knee into his back. She feels a bit of pain in her own arm as she does so – the ache owing to the bullet that had grazed her shoulder just a few days earlier.
Thanks to him.
"Stop," she orders. "I need you to stop doing this." She pulls his arms tighter, forcing him to submit. She abhors having to do this, but sees no alternative.
"What did you do to her?" he growls. "If you hurt her, I'm going to fucking –"
"Deeks," she snaps, pulling his arms tighter again. "I need you to stop fighting me for a minute and try to listen to me. Please."
"No…"
"Dammit, listen! Kara Barstow never existed. We made her up. Same as we did Jimmy Reese. They were aliases created so that we could go undercover and get to Kassel. They were never real. You and me, we're real. Us."
"What you are is a lying bitch," he replies, still struggling against her. It occurs to her then, as she holds him easily, how much weight he's lost. She's lost a considerable amount herself thanks to lack of sleep and appetite, but he's got the body of a drug addict. Just about skin and bones now.
"No," Kensi insists, frustration peppering her tone. "I know this is hard right now. I know you don't know who or what to trust. I know…I know you don't trust me."
She's a bit amazed by just how much it hurts to say those words.
"Why should I?" he demands. "Why should I trust you? You're just a face and a name to me. A bitch I'm supposed to kill."
She ignores the threat and the name-calling and focuses instead on the bigger question at hand. "You shouldn't trust me," she admits. "Not yet anyway. But if you listen to me, if you just…if you just give me a chance, I can help you remember who you are."
"Mr. Kassel already told me who I am. Why should I believe you over him?"
Kensi turns her head slightly, glancing up towards a camera that is mounted in the vent on the ceiling. Right about now, she's wishing Nate was in here instead of her. He's insistent that she's the one that can break through. He's dead certain that the bond that exists between the partners is the key to getting Deeks back.
"That's what I thought," he mutters. "You're wasting your time."
"I sure as hell hope not," she admits. "Look, if I let you go, will you promise not to try to attack me again?"
"No," he answers, meeting her eyes. For just the briefest of moments, she almost thinks she sees the old mischievousness of Deeks there, challenging her, pushing her. But when his eyes harden, she's pretty sure she just imagined it.
"Then I guess we just stay like this for the next couple of hours, my knee in your back and both of our arms very sore. That sound like a plan to you?"
"Fine," he growls. "I'll be good."
"Fantastic," she answers, then releases his arms. She rubs at her own shoulder, feeling the gauze of the bandage. The wound is partially healed and unlikely to break back open and bleed, but it stills aches enough to be noticeable.
"Why does this Deeks guy mean so much to you? What's he got that I don't?"
It's an absurd question, but she doesn't laugh. Instead she says softly, "I'll tell you everything you want to know if you'll let me."
He stares at her, and she thinks that just maybe, he's going to let her in, let her try to make sense of the mess that is his mind right now. After all, even he knows that something is very wrong with his memories. Absent the heroin, even he can see the gaping holes in the story of Jimmy Reese's life.
But then he shakes his head, his face contorting into an ugly sneer. "No."
"No," she repeats.
"You heard me. "
"Right," she agrees. "I heard you."
"Good. So leave."
"No," she says simply. "No way. You're stuck with me, Deeks. You and me, we're stuck together whether we like it or not." She leans in, "We've been that way since the day Hetty paired us. We sure as hell didn't like it then, either."
"Deeks?" Kensi says again. "I mean, I understood working with him for one job and I get it that he's our liaison now. I can deal with that, but shouldn't he be hanging out back in the office, maybe up in Ops with Eric? You know, doing logistics and making phone calls to ease our way? As a good liaison does?"
"Mr. Deeks is a field operative," Hetty replies.
"And a damn good undercover one, too," Deeks puts in. "Don't forget that."
"Whatever. Okay, so fine, he's a field operative. Wouldn't it still really make more sense to pair him with Sam and me with Callen?"
"No," Hetty says simply.
It's a few days after the incident with Traynor and Scarli, and Deeks seems to be back to himself. Obnoxiously so. He's standing a few feet away from her, in the middle of the bullpen, watching her with curious eyes and a small smile.
"You know," he nods, "I think Kensi has a point. She and I, we're not likely to ever make a good partnership. She's a pain in the ass and I'm –"
Kensi can't help but snort in reaction. "The King of the Pain in the Asses."
"Which must make you my Queen."
"Oh please. Hetty, come on. Look at us…"
"I'm sorry, Ms. Blye, my decision is final. Mr. Callen and Mr. Hanna are a team of their own. Breaking them up would be a bad decision. Besides, I see great potential for you two."
"If they don't kill each other first," Sam chuckles as he and Callen enter from the gym. Both of them are soaked with sweat and Callen has a basketball under his arm. He sets it down on his desk, and drops into his chair.
"Fine," Kensi sighs. "Fine." Then, turning to Deeks, she tells him sternly. "I have rules, though."
"Of course you do."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
"Deeks."
"It's just…despite your ability to convincingly double as Rambo, you're still a woman, Kensi, and all women have rules. Tons of rules."
"Well then since you're such the expert on women and rules, you won't mind a few more," Kensi shoots back, ignoring the smirks that Sam and Callen keep tossing back and forth. For her part, Hetty is just watching everything with a shrewd smile, like she somehow already knows how this is all going to work out.
Thing is, she probably does.
"Let's have them then," Deeks answers gamely.
"I drive. Always."
He turns to look at Sam and Callen. "She's kidding, right?"
"I wouldn't assume that," Callen warns. "She has a thing about driving. Luckily for us, she's the junior agent. We have seniority."
"You don't, Deeks," Kensi finishes. "Which means you ride shotgun."
"Okay, you drive. Got it. Next?"
"I'm the senior agent between us. What I say goes."
"You're a partnership," Hetty corrects, stepping forward. "You two will work together. That means making decisions together."
"I'm good with that," Deeks replies. He looks over to Kensi, as if challenging her. She's fairly certain that he's no more keen on this partnership than she is, but he's not going to be the one backing down now.
"All right," she mutters. "But when this whole thing goes to hell – and it will – don't any of you say I didn't warn you."
"So noted, Ms. Blye," Hetty nods. "Now, if you two will come with me, there's some paperwork that I need you to fill out."
"I…I think…I think I remember that," Deeks says softly. But before she can react with happiness or relief, he slaps his forehead. "But it was all a lie. A…a job. Deeks – he was all a lie. I…Jimmy, me…Kassel had me pretend to be Jimmy so that I could…get in with Feds and…the real Deeks is dead. He's dead."
He's babbling now, desperately clinging to the weak set of Swiss cheesed lies that Kassel had told him during his drug-filled captivity.
"No, you are Marty Deeks. The real Deeks. We showed your picture to your mother and she confirmed it. You're her son." She holds up the journal again. "These are her words to you. Not to anyone else. You. Her son."
His head snaps up. "If that's the truth, then why didn't she come to see me herself, huh?"
"We asked her not to," Kensi lies.
"You're lying."
"Are you sure?" she counters. "I mean how could you possibly know that? I mean, if you're Jimmy and not Deeks, you don't know me, right? You don't know when I'm lying or telling the truth, right?"
"I…I know…I…because I…I don't know."
"Maybe it's because you are Marty Deeks and you do know me and you do know your mother," she presses.
"I don't…no…"
She shoves the journal back into his hands. "Read it. They're her words. They're her memories. They may not be good memories, but they're real. This is your your childhood, Deeks, and these words, they're what she wants you to know about it."
Jillian Marie Brandel knows that something has gone very wrong long before she gets the call. It's two-thirty in the morning, and Gordy still hasn't returned home.
Her three-year-old Marty is sound asleep in her arms, his wild blonde mane going every which way. Every now and again, he babbles something crazy and incoherent and turns a bit. He's a noisy sleeper and it's utterly adorable.
Her eyes continue to drift up towards the clock on the wall. Two-thirty turns to three and three to three-thirty. This isn't like Gordy at all. He's not the all-nighter kind of guy. His buddies like to knock back a few, but usually Gordy is the designated driver of the group. As the minutes tick by, she becomes more and more certain that she's never going to see her husband again.
Then the phone rings. Loud enough to wake Marty, who comes to with a loud cry. She's so surprised by both the ringing sound and his sudden wails, that she comes about as close as she ever has to dropping him. Only a last minute grab keeps her son from tumbling to the shag carpet below them.
Slowly, she lifts the phone and stammers out, "Hello?"
The man on the other side asks her if her name is Jillian Brandel. She replies that it is, and then tries to force out the only question that really matters: is he dead?
Far too terrified to actually ask the question, she instead listens to the man as he tells her that her husband has been involved in a terrible car accident, and that she should come to the hospital as quickly as she can. He makes it sound like there might not be a lot of time left.
Having no one to leave Marty with (Chelsea next door is surely awake, but she's on her seventh child now and that's just too many for any one woman to watch over), Jillian drives she and her son to a hospital across town.
As she holds Marty – who is confused, and scared and tired – close in her arms, the doctor tells her that Gordy and his work friends had been side-swiped by a drunk driver. Apparently, at the last moment, Gordy had tried to swerve out of the way, and ended up sending his Cadillac hood-first into a brick wall. Of the six men involved in the crash, only one had survived it.
Gordy.
When the doctor tells her this, she feels the relief flood through her, and the tears run down her face. "Thank God," she says.
A moment later, the doctor says the words that will effectively destroy her marriage, her life and her sons' childhood. "Your husband is holding on, Mrs. Brandel, and we're optimistic that he's going to pull through, but you need to know, he suffered an extremely serious spinal injury in the accident."
"Is he paralyzed?" she asks.
The answer to that question ends up coming fairly quickly: No, he's not paralyzed, but he is severely hurt, and there's not a hell of a lot that anyone can do for him. So instead, the doctors give him high dosage painkillers and apologize for the constant flashes of agony that wind their way up and down his spine. They pretty much shrug and tell him that he's going to have to gut it out.
If the pain were just the worst of it, she's certain that she could have pulled him through it. The guilt and anger are worse, though. He dreams every single night of the car crash and remembers every morning that he is the only survivor.
He's simply not strong enough to deal with the emotions and the pain together.
And so Gordy does what her father had once done; he turns to the bottle. Alcohol and painkillers become his only relief. He spends the vast majority of his time either stoned or drunk now – whatever it takes to not feel either the emotional or physical pain. And all the while, his rage mounts.
Slowly, but surely, Jillian Brandel feels the man she fell in love with slipping away and knows that there is absolutely nothing she can do to stop it.
She lets him rest for a few hours, and attempts to take a nap of her own. Try as she might, though, she can't get the words of the journal out of her head long enough to actually allow sleep to take her.
Morning turns to afternoon and then to night on the second day. It's clear that there are holes being punched into the Jimmy Reese persona, but he's still holding onto it, as if still uncertain what will happen to him if he surrenders it.
At just before dinnertime, she re-enters the room with a bag of McDonalds.
"Hey," she says, holding it up. "Hot and greasy."
"No bread and water?" he quips.
"Wow," she says. "You almost sounded like yourself there."
"I wish I knew who that was," he tells her, sounding exhausted and wary. He takes the food from her, pops a couple of fries, and then pushes the rest away.
"But you know it's not Jimmy," she notes. Nate had told her that this would happen as the deprogramming progressed. It's almost like Deeks is stuck in some strange faceless limbo between Jimmy Reese and Marty Deeks.
"I don't understand what's happened to me."
"I know. And I wish I had answers for you. I wish I could explain to you why Kassel did what he did. I can't."
"Did he hurt you, too?"
She says nothing for almost a moment, then quietly replies, "He did." It's as much of an admission as she cares to provide, as much as she'll give anyone.
"And then I hurt you." He points towards her arm.
"Just a scratch," she says with a smile.
"You…you'd say that even if it wasn't, right? You'd…you'd say that you were… that you were fine, wouldn't you?"
"I would."
"I keep having these…feelings…emotions…something." Then, looking up at her, eyes wide, he asks," Why does Kassel hate you? Why did he send you after me? I can't…I don't know what's real. I don't know what's not…"
"I know. And the reason he sent you after me is because I got away from him."
"I didn't."
"Yes, you did. You're here. Right now. With us. With me."
"So he'll come after both of us now?"
"We're pretty unstoppable together you and me."
"We are?"
"Yeah. When you manage to shut up for a minute that is," she says with a smile.
He wakes up to the sound of rain slamming against the windows of the beach house, the wind howling as it crashes against the glass panes. The master bedroom that he and Kensi are sleeping in is cloaked in darkness thanks to the violent storm that is ravaging the coast.
A well-timed violent storm that is. This undercover operation has been exhausting for both he and Kensi and right now, absolutely nothing sounds better than a weekend of nothing but sleep and relaxation.
Unfortunately for both of them, he's having a hell of a time staying asleep.
They're lying together in the king sized bed in the master bedroom, both curled up under the massive comforter. They're just a few inches away from each other, close enough to feel the heat rolling off each other. Right about now, he's wondering what she would do if he reached out and pulled her close. Probably punch him, he thinks.
"Deeks," she says suddenly, her voice thick and throaty. "If you don't stop fidgeting around, I'm going to kick you."
"Sorry," he apologizes.
She groans in response. Then, after a moment, she rolls to face him. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, just can't sleep."
"Try closing your eyes," she suggests.
He laughs. "That's what my mom used to say to me."
"Smart woman."
"Yeah," he answers, but there's an unmistakable hint of sadness in his tone. She doesn't know a hell of a lot about his past, but he's told her enough for her to understand that his upbringing hadn't exactly been a happy one.
"Go to sleep," she says. "I'm exhausted. I'm sure you are, too."
"I am," he confirms.
"Good. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
She spins away again and closes her eyes. After a moment, though, feeling the tension of his body (even if he's not touching her), she turns back. "Okay, what is it? Are you going to tell me what's going on in that stupid blonde head of yours?"
"Well that was rude."
"And I'm half asleep so either talk or let me sleep. Pick quickly."
"I'm worried about Sanchez," he admits.
"You think he'll sell us out?"
"It's a possibility."
"Okay. So what else?"
"What?"
"You've been worried about Sanchez since day one. So have I. What's really bothering you? And I swear to God, if you say me…"
"Goodnight," he says again.
"Dammit, Deeks," she growls.
"You're my partner. I have the right to worry."
"Well do you think maybe you could worry quietly, please?"
"Excuse me?" he asks.
"I'm tired. I want to sleep. If you're going to insist on acting like Sam about this, then could you at least do it without keeping me awake?"
"You think I'm like Sam?"
"What?"
"You think I'm big and studly and could bench press a Marine with my neck?"
She laughs. "No, that's ridiculous. I doubt you could bench press a pencil with your arms."
"Awesome."
"But he is a chronic worrier. Which drives me nuts. And right now, you're driving me nuts. Therefore…"
"Therefore, I must be Sam."
"Exactly. Without the muscles."
"Fantastic. I think I'm ready to sleep now."
"Great. Eyes closed."
"You know, when I couldn't sleep, my mom…"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence," she orders.
"Why? It's not like I was going to say anything dirty. Geez, where's your mind?"
"Not asleep, that's for damn sure."
He smirks. "Fine. Closing my eyes. I'll see you in the morning."
"Unless I smother you with my pillow first," she replies in an entirely too chipper voice. She doesn't see his raised eyebrow, but she feels him shake his head.
She can't help but smile in response.
Day three starts with breakfast. She brings him pancakes and orange juice. He eats only a little bit of it, and then offers her the rest. She turns it down.
"You're as screwed up as I am, aren't you?" he asks.
"I'm fine," she tells him.
"You're lying again."
"Maybe. I see you've been reading your moms' journal."
"Yeah."
"Do you remember any of it?"
"Some. I remember…some things."
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
"I remember my mother," he says. "I remember her face. It was always so sad, but back then, I guess I just didn't realize it."
He's just over six years old, and he's by far the cutest boy on the block. His blonde hair is unruly and uncombed, a frantic mess of curls and waves. Sitting in the sand of the playground (which is not much more than a rusted out old swing-set and a painted metal slide), his bright blue eyes gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, you might even think he was the happiest kid you've ever seen.
Until you came a few steps closer that is.
Around the Neighborhood, folks know better than to do that. They know better because they already know what they'll see and they're well aware that they lack the courage to do anything about it. So instead, they smile and laugh and talk about how freaking hot it is even though the temperature is perfectly normal for this time of year, and perhaps even a bit cool.
Not one of them mentions the little blonde boy playing in the sand. Not one of them says a word about the fact that it's almost ninety out and he's wearing jeans and long sleeves. It's clear that he's covering something up – something that shouldn't be there – but they all pretend to notice nothing out of the ordinary.
It's just easier that way. Less complicated. Less horrible.
Then, when everything goes to hell, they can all pretend that they just didn't know. They can tell each other that they weren't complicit and responsible.
It's just how things are around the Neighborhood. It's how they've always been and how they will always be.
For his part, little Martin Brandel of 2641 Palm Avenue, Apartment number 3, seems oblivious to it all. He knows that if he moves his right arm just a bit to the left, it aches slightly, but he doesn't seem to care much. After all, there are massive sand castles to build and humongous twisting slides to conquer.
And he has her. His mother.
She's blonde like him, and she has a smile that lights up every room she walks into. He's too young to realize that the smile is only real when she's looking at him. All he knows is that when she turns her ocean blue eyes towards him, she's beautiful in a way that defies the vocabulary of a six-year-old boy.
"Mom," he calls out. "Mom, come look!"
She's standing with other women from the Neighborhood, and she could easily remind him of that, tell him that she's in the middle of an adult conversation and that he'll need to wait until she's done, but she's never done that before and she's not about to do that now.
Instead, seeming almost relieved, Jillian Brandel steps away from the ladies, and just about glides over towards him.
"What do we have here, Marty?" she asks, her hand reaching out to thread her fingers into his too long hair. Gordon – no longer Gordy (he's taken on a sudden hatred for that old childhood name and won't allow anyone – including his own wife – to call him by it) wants him to cut it, but so far, she's managed to win the battle to let Marty wear it a bit long.
For now, Gordon lets her have this one. Mostly, she assumes, because he doesn't really care. When he decides that he does, she'll have to figure out how important this fight is to her. Is it important enough to endure his wrath?
That's how she judges just about everything with Gordon these days. How angry will this make him and more importantly, how much will he hurt them?
In the early days after his back injury, he'd taken out his occasional alcohol and drug-fueled rages on just her. It always goes the same way for them; they argue, he hits her and then hours later, he comes begging for forgiveness. Back when it had first started, before she'd realized that she wasn't nearly as strong as she needed to be to walk away from him, she'd been stern with him. Told him that if it ever happened again, she'd take Marty and that would be the last he'd ever see of them.
Early on, his reaction had been typical of this kind of awful situation. He'd begged her not to leave him. He'd told her that he couldn't survive without them and that if he lost them, well then he'd probably just eat a bullet.
By the fifth time they'd repeated the cycle, she'd begun to understand that things between them had broken. It took a few more times for her to understand the bigger issue, though: he was the one that was broken, it was him. Just him.
Still, even a different man, she loves Gordon and so she stays with him. Hoping and praying that one morning, she'll roll over to see his formerly impish smile staring back at her. That day never comes, though, and after three years of waiting for it to, she's finally begun to accept that it never will.
No, this is Gordon now. Quiet, moody, constantly stoned and drunk, occasionally angry, impatient and generally unhappy.
He spends his days working in the office of a construction company. He hates his job and doesn't even bother to hide it. When he comes home, he drops onto the couch and after popping several painkillers, he always demands a beer. When she tries to suggest that maybe they talk or do something else, he usually yells at her to just do as she's told and be quick about it. Nowadays, he wants her to be quiet and submissive all the time – even in their so-called lovemaking.
And Marty, well he wants Marty to be obedient and silent – even in his play.
Worse than that, though, he wants six year old Marty to be a man. He has no use for playful childish ways anymore. Unfortunately for him, Marty is a boy who enjoys laughing entirely too much. He's silly and goofy and has no desire to grow up a day sooner than he has to.
The old Gordon would have loved that. His childhood had been hard and he'd always wanted his family to have everything he couldn't. He'd always wanted his child to grow up happy as he'd never had the opportunity to. That had been the old Gordon, the one that Jillian Deeks had fallen in love with.
This Gordon is exactly like his own daddy. Mean and angry and often cruel in his punishments. And much like his own daddy, Gordon has begun to use violence and force to make every one of his points. In her mind, Jillian has started to see him as nothing but a weak and pathetic man – sometimes, not much of a man at all.
The day he'd struck Marty across the face with the back of his hand merely because the little boy had jokingly refused to get him a beer as asked, Jillian had realized that Gordon wasn't the only weak and pathetic parent that Marty had.
Unfortunately for Marty, she's just as bad. She's tried to rationalize her weakness away by saying that she has nowhere for them to go – no family to turn to. She has no job – Gordon has always brought home all of the income. Her job has always been to mind the boy. So now, where would she go? What would she do?
So she and Marty stay with Gordon. And each time, she draws a new line in the sand of what it would take to leave. Inevitably, she ends up erasing the line and redrawing it somewhere else.
"Castle Snake Eyes," Marty replies, pulling her forcefully out of her dark thoughts. He gestures proudly at his sand creation. It's clumpy, and sloppy, but Jillian looks at it like it's a work of pure art.
"Castle Snake Eyes," she repeats. "Why Castle Snake Eyes, baby?"
"Because it sounds cool. Who's going to try to take on Castle Snake Eyes?" He's grinning widely, showing off two gaps where there used to be teeth. One of them had fallen out naturally, but the other, she remembers with a sharp pang of guilt and self-hatred, Gordon had knocked out when he had again slapped Marty – this time for "talking smart to his daddy".
Marty seems to have that problem a lot. Even at six years old, he's got a quick wit and a fast mouth. That might eventually serve him well around the Neighborhood (she shudders to think), but it certainly does him no good in his own house and around a daddy who spends most of his nights drunk and angry.
"No one," she admits as she kneels down next to him.
Tonight, she thinks to herself, I'll leave Gordon. While he's sleeping, I'll pack a bag for me and Marty, and we'll go to a shelter somewhere. Tonight, we'll leave.
Tonight, she knows, she'll be right where she was last night and the night before that; lying next to Gordon in their bed, listening to him toss and turn through another violent nightmare, wishing that he'd had just one more beer before bed – enough to make his sleep dreamless.
Tonight, she knows, she'll get up around two in the morning, then make her way down the hallway and into Marty's bedroom. She'll stand near the door, watching him sleep, wishing she had the courage to scoop him up into her arms and carry him away to safety.
She knows better. No matter the many lines that she's drawn, she's not strong enough. Not for herself and not for him. She's a failure at pretty much everything, but being that for him is the one thing that she'll never forgive herself for.
Now, sitting next to him in the sandbox of the park, she removes her hand from his hair, and reaches down to touch his cheek, cupping it gently. If he was older and understood adult emotion, he'd recognize her expression as one of deep sadness. That understanding won't come to him for several more years.
Today, on this warm summer afternoon, all he knows is that the one person he loves most in the world is sitting next to him, admiring his handiwork.
For six-year-old Marty Brandel, despite the aching bruises and welts on his arms (marks his Mom insists he covers up) and the soreness of his bottom (all somewhat painful reminders of having "let down daddy"), this is the good life.
He has no idea how wrong he is.
There's nothing more she'd like right now than to stop. This forced trip down Deeks' memory lane, it feels wrong and intrusive, but worse than that, it's clearly hideously painful for him, and she hates that she's the one hurting him.
But suddenly, just as she's about to call it quits for the day, Nate is in her ear, his voice coming across the earwig that he'd insisted she'd wear from now on.
"Keep going," he says gently. "This is good."
She wants to argue with him, but instead reaches out and touches Deeks' arm.
"I don't want to…I don't…" he offers her the journal.
"I know," she replies. She slides her hand to his. Then, with a smile, she says, "You know, when this is all over, I'm going to owe you a few hits."
"A few hits?"
"For shooting me."
"Didn't you kick me in the crotch?"
"I more stepped on your crotch. And you have to admit, you deserved that."
"You always have to win, don't you?" he asks.
She smiles and then says teasingly, "I think you're remembering more than you're letting on, Partner."
Some of the nights on this assignment have been boring as hell. Some have been full of action and drama. Strangely enough for a guy who typically prefers undercover ops to have as little downtime as is possible, the evenings that Marty Deeks likes the best are the ones he spends next to his partner on the couch.
Typically, they sit by side on the sofa, watching TV. Usually some hideous reality show. Kensi has quite the thing for them, and if he's honest with himself, he finds her obsession with makeover and talent shows somewhat adorable. Actually, what he finds adorable is how much she gets into them.
They're two weeks into the job, and he has a rare night away from having to wander around the Los Angeles valley pretending to be a drug dealing college kid who is in way over his head. Tonight, the partners are doing nothing more than enjoying an evening of Chinese take-out (he loves rice, she has a thing for noodles) and some ridiculous dancing and singing show on NBC.
Kensi is in rare form tonight, hollering and cheering, and making comments about every contestant – some kind and some rude. She's snarky and witty, but mostly it's her laugh that he hears. Over and over.
He's never seen her like this. It's a bit of an unexpected gift, he thinks. And a wonderful one at that.
They're in the middle of a hellacious undercover assignment, and they both know that their apartment is bugged to holy hell, but right now, she seems completely at ease. Happy and in her own skin. Of course, he knows better. He knows that even if she appears to be letting down her hair (both literally and figuratively) and relaxing, she's just milliseconds away from being back on guard if need be.
"She's pretty," he says about a woman in her mid twenties with a bold voice.
Kensi shrugs, "Big teeth. And I wouldn't have worn those shoes."
He almost fires back a joke about this coming from a woman who is most comfortable in steel-toed boots, but at the last moment, Deeks remembers where they are – and who they're supposed to be (Jimmy and Kara) and stops himself. Instead, he smirks at her, and lifts an eyebrow.
The expression is rewarded with a fist to the shoulder. He's amazed by how much he's missed that while they've been playing house in the skins of two other people who have such a different relationship. Jimmy and Kara, maybe they love each other on paper and there's some loyalty and dedication, but the way they interact, it doesn't feel like friendship.
Deeks almost shakes his head when he realizes that he's thinking about Jimmy and Kara like they're real people. They're not, of course. They're just characters, and it's utterly absurd to be psychoanalyzing a relationship that isn't real to begin with. It's bizarre to be holding a fake engagement up against a real partnership.
And yet he is.
As he watches Kensi laugh and point and heckle, he thinks about what this woman means to him.
Everything.
And good God if that isn't the scariest thought he's ever had.
"Honey?" she says suddenly, and he sees that her dark eyes are worried.
"I'm good," he tells her. "Just tired."
"If you want, go to bed. You don't have to stay up with me."
"Nowhere I'd rather be," he replies. And he means it. They lock eyes, and he knows in that moment that she understands exactly what he's saying.
It's enough to make her look away from him.
Deeks, of course, does what he always does; he lightens the situation up. "So what about her? I mean, yeah, the skirt is ugly and I'm not sure what she's got going on with her hair, but –"
"Oh, she's cute," Kensi says, clearly just to be contrary.
"Cute."
"Yeah."
He rolls his eyes. "Fine, then I'm rooting for Big Teeth. You can root for Cute."
"Fine. I win, you're doing the dishes for the next week."
"Okay. I win, you're giving me a back massage for the next week."
"Really?"
"Unless you're scared to lose that is," he taunts.
But he knows his partner too well by now; she'll never back down from a challenge – especially not a direct one.
"Of course not, baby," she purrs in response, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief and determination. "But when you lose, I expect you to hand wash and dry everything. The machine keeps leaving gunk on the glasses."
"And when you lose, I expect you to really get your knuckles into it."
"Oh, honey," she assures him with a dangerous smile. "If I lose, and I never lose, I promise you, I'll get my knuckles into it. Really into it."
He knows that this is about the time they should both pull back. Neither one of them sounds like Jimmy or Kara at this point. No, despite the terms of endearment that they're throwing back and forth like hand grenades, they're full on Kensi and Deeks right about now.
Luckily for them, there's no possible way that Kassel would be able to really tell the difference – he doesn't know them well enough. At least not yet. He knows social Jimmy and Kara, not the "private" versions. He probably assumes that this teasing back and forth is them.
Still, they both know that it's dangerous to slip out of character for even a moment, and already in the first two weeks of this op, they've had more than a few moments where it's happened. They need to be careful. Much more careful.
That knowledge of that need to be cautious doesn't stop him from giving her his best smile – the one that has, on more than one occasion, literally charmed the panties off of a beautiful woman – and replies, "You're on." And then, his smiling growing so that it just about it touches his eyes, he adds, "My Sweet."
She rolls her eyes, then turns to the TV and says to the woman on the screen, "Let's go, Cute. Bring it home for me." Then, glancing one more at Deeks, she simply winks at him.
Yeah, these are the nights that he enjoys the best.
"Please. Please. No more," he begs her, his body shaking beneath the weight of the memories.
She glances over at the camera, her eyes pleading with it – with her team on the other side of it – to please, stop. For him. For her. For both of them.
"Just a little bit more," Nate presses. "Go back to his past."
She turns her attention back to Deeks, and offers what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "We're almost done for the night," she tells him. "But maybe, before I leave, you think maybe you could talk to me about your dad again?"
"I don't want to."
"I don't want to, either, Deeks. Believe me, I don't want to be doing this. But, we have to, okay? We have to."
He closes his eyes, and she thinks she sees tears leaking down, spilling across his ashy sunken in cheeks. "I hated him," he says softly. "Even at nine years old, I already knew that I hated him."
He's nine years old and thunderously angry. A boy his age shouldn't know the kind of rage that Martin Brandel does, and even he knows that he shouldn't be pissed for the reasons that he is, but right now, he's seconds away from one hell of a meltdown.
He's standing on the curb outside of the barber's shop, and his parents are two feet away from, having a ferocious knockdown. Over him, of course.
Which these days, is pretty the norm.
He's nine, but he's smart. Around here, you have to be eleven when you're nine and fifteen when you're eleven. Around this Neighborhood, you either get wise quick or you end up being a nobody thug in some other dipshits' gang.
He's nine, but already Marty knows that he has no interest in being part of a gang. His best friend Ray is twelve years old and already Ray sounds like he thinks maybe there's no hope for him. If Marty were older and understood the world just a little bit better, he'd be inclined to agree.
Right now, though, he doesn't give a shit.
Right now, he just doesn't want to lose his hair.
But his daddy – no, his father – has made the decision. It's time for him to grow up a bit. He's no longer a cute little boy. And Gordon John Brandel is going to be God-damned if his son is going to look like a girl because he likes to wear his blonde locks a bit wild and long.
"Gordy," his mom snaps. "Please."
"I told you not to call me that."
"Gordy."
"Shut up," Gordon growls, and Marty thinks he sees his father's right hand twitch. It's enough to make Marty take a step backwards. Most of the time, his father is a quiet and broody man, who spends all of his time either away from the apartment or on the couch with a beer in his hand. Most of the time, his father is more than happy to leave him alone.
When he's not, though, when his father is angry, there's always pain involved.
At age six, Marty had only known that things ached. He'd believed then that his naughty behavior had been the reason that his daddy had hurt him.
At age nine, Marty knows enough to realize that his actions aren't always connected to why his father is so angry. And the punishments – sometimes a hard slap across the face (painful), sometimes a belt to the backside (humiliating) and sometimes a night spent out naked in the backyard in forty-five degree weather (terrifying) make no sense to him. He can't imagine what he could have possibly done to upset his father so terribly.
All he knows is that with each passing day, his feelings for his father darken.
"Into the shop, Marty," Gordon bellows, his hand clenching tighter.
"No."
"Fine," is the sharp reply, and immediately, Marty knows that he'll pay for his stubbornness. It might seem to everyone else that this is a battle that he's won, but he as he looks back at his father, and into turbulent damaged eyes, he knows that this punishment might be worse than anything that's come before it.
He's not wrong.
His mother screams and begs and swears that she's going to call the cops. She tells his father that if he doesn't stop, she'll leave come nightfall. She even says that she'll kill him if he doesn't immediately cease and desist.
The words mean nothing to his father. Gordon simply sees them for what they are – empty threats voiced by a weak woman without the courage to walk away.
By the end of the night, Marty's blonde hair is almost completely gone. He's been shaved all the way down and is now wearing the cut that a kid might get on his first day in Boot Camp.
For him, that's bad enough. For Gordon, it's not nearly so. The punishment involves a belt and a fist. By the time it's over and Marty's lying on his stomach in his bed, silently weeping into his pillow, his mother's fingers rubbing against his back, his dark feelings have swelled into hatred.
"Are you all right, my dear?" Hetty asks as she enters the bathroom of the safe house. She watches as her junior agent again leans over the toilet and finishes throwing up the remainder of the meager lunch that she'd managed to ingest a few hours earlier.
Slowly, Kensi rights herself, and then turns to face Hetty. "No, I'm not. And I don't understand how he could be after we've forced him to relive all of this."
"It's hard –"
"No, it's not hard, it's - excuse my language, Hetty – but it's fucking impossible. And it's awful. We're taking him through the worst memories of his life and we're not asking him if he's okay with it. What if someone did that to one of us?"
"I think we would have to be happy that someone cared about us enough to do it," Hetty suggests, though her normally unreadable eyes seem to be slightly troubled.
"We've all spent so much time trying to hide our pasts from each other…"
"A mistake," Hetty tells her. "But an understandable one."
"This just feels wrong."
"It should feel wrong, Ms. Blye. It is wrong. All of this is. It's very, very wrong. With any luck, though, we're close to a breakthrough."
"You think?" Kensi asks, moving away from the toilet.
"I do. It's clear that he remembers his past. He just hasn't yet connected with it. Remembering is a big piece of it, but Nate is correct when he says that those memories were never actually gone. They were just buried. Connecting emotionally with who he is, remembering that he is Marty Deeks and that he wants to be Marty Deeks, that's the important part."
"Then why are we bothering with the bad stuff? Why not just remind him of the good times he's had. The reason he'd want to be Deeks."
"Because then you'd be lying to him and only telling him half of his story. Life is a sum of its parts, Ms. Blye. You of all people know that. If we remove either the wonderful or the painful moments of your life, you wouldn't be the woman you are today. You surely would not be standing in front of me."
"Sometimes I wonder," Kensi whispers.
"Of course you do. We all do. For what it's worth, though, I'm glad you're here today, and I know that Mr. Deeks is as well. Even if hasn't realized it yet."
"I hope you're right."
"I usually am. Now here, drink this. To clear the taste out," Hetty says as she offers Kensi a cup of water. The brunette takes it gratefully, drinks it, swishes the liquid around in her month, and the spits it into the sink.
"Thanks." She starts for the door, then stops. "You really think he's close?"
"I do."
"Then maybe it's time to go all in," Kensi suggests.
"What did you have in mind?" Hetty asks.
She shrugs. "We do what Deeks does best; we change sight-lines."
"You really love doing this kind of stuff don't you?" Kensi asks suddenly. It's the night before the op, and they're still at her apartment, sitting on her couch sharing beers. She's on her third, he's on his second. Neither of them is close to buzzed.
"Undercover work you mean?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, I do," he admits.
"Why?"
"Sometimes, I think you have to change sight-lines."
"Sight-lines? I mean, I know what the word means. I'm not completely sure I understand what you mean."
"Sometimes it's nice to be someone else, someone besides Marty Deeks."
"Ah."
"Right. I bet you don't ever want to be anyone besides Kensi Blye, huh?"
She shrugs.
"That wasn't an answer."
"I like who I am, Deeks."
"Most of the time I like who I am, too. Some days, though, I wish I had a different past. Maybe a different upbringing. You can't tell me that some days you don't wish you were a woman who still has both parents. Maybe one who grew up with money and a large family?"
She doesn't reply.
"That's what I thought."
"Go home, Deeks."
"Okay. But just remember, come morning, you love me."
"Well then let me have tonight where I hate you in peace."
"As you wish, Princess." He gets up and makes his way to the door, somehow narrowly avoiding being hit by the pillow that she throws at him. "For what it's worth," he says, his back to her. "I'm glad you'll be there with me. Sometimes...sometimes I change my sight-lines too much. Sometimes I get lost in my new sight-lines."
She watches him for a moment, realizing that he's not going to turn around to face her. Finally she says, "Don't worry, Deeks, I'll always be there to pull you back and remind you who you are." Her tone is intentionally light, and she means her words to be a joke.
"I hope so," he says, and for a moment, it's all too serious. And then he laughs. "Ease up on the beers, huh? You don't want to start day one of the op nursing a hangover."
She snorts in response. "Please. I can actually hold my liquor."
"One of these days, I'm going to test that." And with that, he turns and leaves, the door closing behind him.
It doesn't occur to her until much later that he hadn't been talking about the alcohol at all. No, when he'd said that one of these days he was going to test her, he'd been talking about her promise to pull him back.
"The beach?" Deeks asks as she guides him out to the sand. They're about five miles from the safe house, on a relatively secluded patch of sand. It's just the two of them as far as he knows, but she's well aware of the fact that Callen and Sam are just out of sight, watching them through binoculars and listening to everything that's said over their earpieces.
"It's just about your favorite place to be," she says.
"And yours?"
"No. I'm much more of an asphalt kind of girl."
He doesn't reply, just stares out at the water, watching the waves crash against the sand. Finally, quietly, he says, "I shot my dad. But, I guess you already know that, right? You've probably read every page of that journal. I bet my mom put something in there about it."
"She did," Kensi admits. "But it's okay if you want to talk about it."
"I really don't want to."
"I know."
"But I have to, right? It's the only way I become me again, right?"
"Yeah."
"Fine." He says nothing for several minutes, just watches the water. Then, quietly, "I was eleven years old, almost twelve. My best friend was a fourteen year old kid named Ray. The single coolest dude on the block. He grew up in the middle of a family of ten kids. His dad was a creep and his mom was harried and barely had time to do much more than make sure there was food on the table. Ray, he was the one who taught me everything about well…everything. You know, the things my dad should have taught me. Like how to fire a gun."
It's almost two in the morning when eleven-year-old Marty Brandel is woken up by the sound of screaming. This is unfortunately nothing new to him so he doesn't jump from his bed. All he does is pull his blanket tighter around him.
His parents are yelling at each other. No, that's not quite right. His father is screaming, but his mother is trying to calm him down. He can't tell what they're arguing about, but it has to be something serious. Something big.
And then he hears his name.
A moment later, the door to his room slams open, and his father charges in.
"Get up, you little bastard."
Marty blinks, his mind desperately trying to figure out what he could have done to so anger his father.
"Gordon, please," his mother begs. "Leave him alone."
"Shut up," Gordon growls, then turns his attention back to his son. "Get up. Now."
Slowly, Marty crawls out of the bed. He's not on his feet a moment before he feels the impact of his father's fist against his face. It hurts like hell but he's determined not to cry. He's determined to be a man.
That's what his father keeps telling him he has to be after all.
"Gordon!"
"Where is it?"
"Where's what?" Marty asks, hand on his throbbing cheek.
"My money. Where is my money?"
"I don't know what you're talking about?"
"Don't you lie to me, boy. I know you took it."
"Go to hell," Marty shoots back, knowing that he'll pay for his words. He's not wrong; his father hits him again. He tumbles backwards, falling against his bed. Blood spills down his face, and for a moment, he's sure that his jaw is broken.
"Gordon, stop!" his mother screams, reaching out and grabbing his father's arm before he can strike again.
"I told you to stay out of this." He pushes her back, but she refuses to let go.
"No," she says, before stepping in front of Marty. "No more. You're not going to touch him again, do you understand me?"
He's about to laugh at her, maybe remind her of just how weak she is, but just as he opens his mouth to do so, their eyes lock and he sees something he's never seen before in her bright blue eyes – determination. Cold and steely.
"Get out of my way," he tells her.
"No. That's not going to happen."
"Okay, then, Jillian, you tell me what is going to happen here, huh? Since you're so smart and you've got it all figured out."
"I do have it figured out, Gordon. Finally. So here's what's going to happen: you're going to turn and walk out of this room. Go get yourself a beer if you want. And then you're going to listen as I pack a bag for Marty and I. And then I want you to really focus so that you can hear the sound of the door close because that's going to be the last time you hear anything from us."
"I don't think so."
It all happens so quickly after that. Gordon reaches out, grabs his wife by the hair and throws her against the far wall of the bedroom. A moment later, he's atop her, punching her as hard as he can and screaming incoherently at her.
Marty remembers yelling for his father to stop and then grabbing at him. He remembers being pushed back and away.
And then he remembers thinking about the bag that Ray had given him just a few days earlier, after Ray had seen dark bruises on Marty's body during a morning surf. "Just in case you get to a point where you can't take it anymore, Marty."
Apparently, this is that point.
His father is completely oblivious to him, never sees him yank the gun out of the bag. Maybe he hears the click of the hammer, but it isn't until Marty says, "Stop or I will shoot you," that Gordon Brandel knows that he's completely lost control.
A moment later, when he lunges for his son, and feels hot lead enter his body, he knows that he's lost everything he's ever loved in this world.
The hell of it is; he's too far gone to care.
It takes several minutes for his heart to stop pounding in his chest hard enough to make him feel like it's about to explode, but once it does, Marty gets up, calm as can be, and makes his way over to his mother. He wraps his arms around her and tells her that it's all okay now. Everything is okay.
When the police arrive ten minutes later – summoned by Chelsea from next door (Ray's mother) who had heard both the fight and the gunshot (but not bothered calling it in until she'd heart the crack of the pistol) – he's still holding his mother.
And he's still saying – over and over again – that it's all going to be okay now. He keeps saying that until the sedative that the doctor at the hospital gives him finally kicks in. When he wakes up, it's the first thing his mother says to him.
"Everything is going to be okay now, Marty."
Ten days later, she files for divorce and changes both of their last names back to her maiden name – Deeks.
He never sees his father again.
"He died a few years ago," Deeks says. "I just remembered that. Hetty found it out for me. Wow."
"Are you…are you okay with that?"
"I don't know." He turns to face her. "You are an asphalt kind of girl."
She cocks her head to the side, clearly not understanding. "Yeah."
"You like Twinkies and Chinese and dark ales and bubble baths."
"Yeah."
"You're insane and reckless and the single most badass person that I've ever met in my life."
"Deeks…"
"You're also kind and generous and loyal and there's not a person who has met you who wouldn't lie down their lives for you."
"Deeks, I don't understand where you're going with this," she says, feeling more than a little uncomfortable and more than a lot unnerved. She glances over her shoulder, back towards where she knows Sam and Callen are. She wonders what they're thinking about everything they've heard.
"And I'm Marty Deeks," he continues, causing her look back at him. She sees his eyes feel with tears and though it's close to the moment that they've all been waiting and hoping for, she suddenly finds that she's afraid of the breakthrough that he's about to have. She has a terrible feeling that it's going to be more painful than anyone imagined.
"Yes, you are," she answers, her voice quiet. She reaches for him, but he easily evades her. Instead, he stands up, and starts pacing back and forth. She stands as well, her body tensing just in case he tries to suddenly make a break for it.
She knows he won't, though. The part of him that was clinging to Jimmy Reese has finally surrendered. He's no longer running away. She wonders why she's suddenly so fearful of the fact that he's about to confront and accept his real self.
"Yeah, I'm Marty Deeks, born Martin Brandel. I'm a kid who stole ten bucks from my father's wallet so that I could take my best friend and I out for lunch on the Promenade. I'm the kid who watched his mother get the shit beat out of her."
"You saved her…"
Deeks ignores her. "I'm the guy who quit law school because I couldn't hack it."
She shakes her head. "You quit to become a cop. To help people."
"And now I'm the guy most people can't stand and who is only worth a damn when he's being someone else. So tell me, why would I want to return to Marty Deeks? Tell me, what value is there in him?"
"Are you kidding me?" she asks. She takes a step forward and put a hand on both of his arms. "You're the best man that I've ever met."
"That's what you're suppose to say right now. Doesn't make it true."
"Really? When have I ever just said anything?"
"Lying is part of the job."
"Look at me, Deeks, do I look like I'm lying to you? Have I ever been able to lie to you? Look at me!" She forces him to meet her eyes. "You are my partner and you are my best friend. I trust you and I need you. And if you remember anything at all about me, you know what it means for me to say that to anyone."
She sees the impact of her words in his stormy blue eyes. Slowly, the energy seeping completely out of him, he drops back down to the sand. He puts his head into his hands. "I know," she hears him whisper, though she's not terribly sure whether he's talking to her or himself.
She seats herself beside him, then reaches out and puts her arms around him. He doesn't protest, just lies his head against her shoulder, his body shaking beneath her hands. It's such a familiar moment.
Only last time, he was the one holding her.
Last time, he was the one doing whatever he could to save her.
He's the one who breaks the kiss. "Kensi," he breathes, his lips just inches away from her. He can feel her breath whisper against his skin.
"Please," she says, her dark eyes wild and frantic. He tries to read her, tries to figure out what she's thinking, but all he sees is fear and hurt and pain. "I feel him on me. I can feel his hands. I can feel him. I…please…"
That's the moment when he understands what she's asking for. "Kensi," he stammers. "I can't…we can't…"
She reacts as if he'd slapped her. She steps back and away from him, her facial muscles tensing up and her eyes growing hard. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't…I don't know what came over me. I…that was stupid."
She lifts her arms and runs her hands through her hair, causing the tank she's wearing to ride up slight. He sees dark bruises on her abdomen, marks forced into her skin by Kassel's fingers. He feels his stomach seize.
"Kensi, no, it wasn't…and God, don't you know…"
"No! I don't know," she suddenly yells, and then she back in front of him, a hand on each of his shoulder. "I don't know how I'm supposed to be feeling right now. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. I don't know how to deal with this. Dammit, Deeks, I don't know…"
He stops her by leaning down and pressing his lips against her. And then he pulls her to him and deepens the kiss, his hands winding into her hair. When he finally, reluctantly steps back, he looks into her dark eyes, meeting them with his almost obscenely calm blue ones. He tries to express to her just how much she means to him, just how much he'd do for her.
Anything, he tries to tell her. Anything at all. And what she's asking right now? Well it's something he's been wanting for awhile anyway. So if she's sure…
She reaches for him, then again, in a barely audible voice says simply, "Please."
There are no more questions and no further words after that. He removes her bathrobe and lays it on the cold floor. They undress each other silently, each taking a moment to drink in the physical beauty of their lovers' body. Then, gently, he lowers her to the ground, lays her on the bathrobe and as he presses his mouth against her neck, he intertwines his fingers with hers.
It's slow and sweet, and he takes great pains to make sure that he touches every mark – every bite and every bruise – that Kassel left behind.
She's pretty sure that she cries at least a little bit. In fact, she's sure of it because every time a tear streaks its way down her cheek, he kisses it away. It's utterly romantic, and it makes her laugh, which after a brief stunned moment, makes him laugh as well. As is their way, serious quickly turns to humorous. Somehow, almost inexplicably, they make even this horrible moment their own.
It's almost three in the morning when he finally helps her up from the floor, and half-walk/half-carries her back into the bedroom. He lays her in the bed and then slides down next to her, his arms wrapping around her naked torso.
"You are amazing," he whispers, his stubble tickling against the soft flesh of her left earlobe. She feels his teeth nip at it a moment later.
She considers throwing back a quip, making a joke, but the realization of what has just occurred between them hits her hard. "Thank you," she says simply. She hopes he knows that she's thanking him for so more than just the physical part of what they had just shared.
A moment later, he feels her turn in his arms, then curl against his chest. He reacts by pulling her even closer and holding her as tight as he can. He presses his lips to her hair, inhaling shampoo and soap and sweat.
It occurs to her that in her entire life, there's only been one man that Kensi Blye has allowed to hold her this close, even after lovemaking. She'd lost that man.
She can't lose this one. She can't. She simply can't.
Need and urgency again flooding through her, she presses her hands against his naked chest and then leans up and kisses him again.
This time, he doesn't protest even a little bit.
This time, she doesn't cry. Not even a little bit.
It finally happens. It's a bit like coming apart at the seams and a whole lot like feeling everything you are and everything you thought you were get torn apart just so that it can be stitched back together. It's horrifying and painful.
In the end, though, all that matters is that Marty Deeks sheds the rest of the Jimmy Reese persona. Finally, Marty Deeks finally breaks through.
It's the moment they've all been waiting for and she's right; it's far worse than anyone could have ever imagined. He's not crying; he's sobbing, utterly hysterical and completely broken. All she can do is hold him.
It's not nearly enough, but it's all she can do.
She hears Callen in her ear asking if Deeks is okay. When she doesn't reply, he tells her that they're on their way. That's when she says simply, "Wait."
"All right," Callen tells her. "Standing by." He sounds like he doesn't like it, but right now, no one is going to doubt that she knows what is best for Deeks.
She turns her attention back to Deeks. "I'm here," she tells him, over and over again. "I'm right here."
She thinks about the words that both he and his mother had said to each other after the shooting of his father. She doesn't dare repeat them now because she doesn't know if everything will be okay. She'd like to think it will, but she can't stand the idea of telling him even a small lie. Even if she doesn't know if it is a lie.
After what seems like an eternity, he finally stops sobbing (though he still sounds to her as if he's desperately gasping for air). When she looks down, she sees that he's still conscious, but his eyes are glazed over with exhaustion.
Slowly, she reaches up and touches her earpiece, her fingers shaking as emotion fueled adrenaline surges through her, "Guys, I'm going to need some help here," she whispers.
"We're on our way, Kensi," Sam tells her, his voice unnaturally soft. She knows that they heard every word that was said between she and Deeks. They now know exactly what happened between them in the bathroom – they know of the lines that have been crossed. Oddly, she just doesn't care anymore.
Gently, she lowers her head to her partners' chest, her arms circling around his mid-section. She presses her ear against his heart, listening to the thumping noise it makes as it beats. She closes her eyes. "I'm here," she says again.
It's far from over, she knows. There's so much healing to be done. For both of them. Part of that healing involves bringing Christopher Kassel to justice. He's still out there and he still needs to pay for what he has done to them.
That's for tomorrow.
Today, right now, she has Deeks back, and that's all that matters.
TBC...