Author's Note: Apologies for the long wait. I'm not great at writing in the summer- my muse tends to get apathetic heat stroke and I struggle. The good news is, we're very close to the end. One more chapter and an epilogue to go. Stick with me just a bit longer - one way or another, this tale will be concluded by the time S3 premieres. The chapter below is set up and more emotional table-setting for the final show-down, but I think it's necessary to understand where our heroes are right now. I look forward to your thoughts, and hope you continue to enjoy the story.

He's in the dressing room of the Mission, and already back in the ratty dark clothes that he'd been wearing when he'd attacked her in her apartment. As she watches him adjust the jacket he's wearing, she's suddenly and admittedly rather absurdly struck by the desire to rip them off of him.

And not in any kind of weird kinky sexual way.

No, the simple truth of the matter is that Kensi Blye wants to forget that Jimmy Reese had ever existed. She certainly wants to pretend that her partner never actually believed that he was the character (either the fairly harmless version that Eric created or the bastardized thug one that Kassel had built) that had been created for their undercover operation seven months earlier.

That's clearly not going to be possible. At least for right now.

For right now, anyway, the plan that the team has concocted demands that they need Deeks to act like he still believes that he is Jimmy so that they can convince Kassel's son Justin Cavanaugh to take Deeks back to his father.

After that, if all goes well, well then they arrest Kassel and then go out for a couple rounds of whiskey in order to celebrate the downfall of the son of a bitch who has pretty shredded the lives of both she and her partner.

It's a simple plan.

It's a terrible plan.

No one is going to be able to talk Deeks out of it.

Still, she has to try. At least one more time.

It's late in the afternoon, and the minutes they have left before this idiotic plan needs to be put into action are slipping away faster than she cares to admit. In a perfect world (which is a joke in and of itself), she'd like to think that there's plenty of time to make him see reason, but God if she doesn't knows better.

This has to end. One way or another.

Kassel has to be stopped. Until he has been, neither one of them will be able to really heal. Sure, she knows from personal experience that the physical wounds will fade to ugly scars, but the lack of bleeding won't stop the nightmares.

And it won't bring back her once nearly impeccable aim.

And it most certainly won't change the fact that he is now and always will be a heroin addict.

To be honest, even catching Kassel probably won't change those things, but maybe knowing that he's behind bars (or better, six feet under) will allow them both to really get the help they need without the fear of wondering what's coming up behind them.

She knows that she's further along than Deeks, but there are still miles to go in her healing. And for him, there are marathons worth of recovery ahead of him.

The furious part of Kensi Blye – and dear Lord, that feels like the strongest part of her these days – wants to take Deeks by the hand and tell him to lock and load. She wants to tell him to get ready to get the bloody and frenzied revenge that they both so desperately need.

And deserve.

She won't do that, though.

At least not until she tries to talk him out of this ridiculous plan. One more time, she figures. It's a waste of time, but she has to give it just one more go.

She has her reasons for wanting to talk him out of this, and they are many and complicated. Sure, there are the professional ones. And the ethical ones. And the ones that basically come down to crossing lines and who is good and who is bad.

None of those really matter, though.

The reason she wants to talk him out of this terrible plan is simple if not selfish; she's terrified of losing him.

Again.

"Deeks," she says softly. She comes up beside him and makes sure that he can see her reflection as well as his own in the body length mirror. He seems entranced by the weakened image of himself, amazed by how thin and pale he is. It's almost like he doesn't recognize himself. She sees him trail a hand over the track marks on the inside of elbow, ugly dark gouges into his flesh. She repeats his name after a moment, this time slightly louder.

He turns his head slightly, and the faintest bit of a smile lifts the corner of his lips. "Hey, Partner," he just about whispers.

"There are other plans," she says, knowing that she doesn't need to preamble this conversation, knowing that they've simply been through too much together to have to pad their words with unnecessary explanations and commentaries.

"I know," he nods. He stares at his reflection in the mirror once more, and then, after a moment, frowns. "But I don't like him so much."

"I don't either," she agrees, instinctively knowing that they're talking about Jimmy Reese and not Chris Kassel. "But we need to stop and think about this. Please. So much can go wrong."

"I know," he says again. "But I think we have to do this anyway."

"Deeks…"

He turns to face her. "You know what I want to do right now?"

"Wha..what?" she stammers, not completely sure that she wants to hear the answer. After all, there's a lot of things that she would like to do right about now, and several of them are somewhat violence related. Some of them – the ones that involve paying Kassel back in kind - horrify even her.

"I'd like to make you laugh," he replies, his voice deadly serious. "But right now, I don't have the words to. Right now, I don't feel…I don't…I don't know how…"

"You're still, Deeks," she tells him. "And deep down, there's still a scrubby surfer telling lame jokes. He just needs to find his way back to the surface."

"I hope you're right."

"I usually am, aren't I?"

He offers only the thinnest of smiles to that.

Understanding in that moment exactly why they have to do this, she reaches out, and touches his forearm. "Fine," she says softly. "But we do this together. Which means that if you're going in, I'm right behind you. And this time, we both come out or neither of us do, okay?"

"I've heard that before," he says with the same thin smile.

"This time, I mean it."

"You didn't mean it last time?" he asks. It's clear that he's trying to tease her, but the words cut hard against her, and she can't stop herself from reacting.

"I'm sorry," she says simply, quietly, her eyes dropping to the floor. When she looks up again, he sees moisture gathering there, pooling and threatening to leak down her entirely too pale cheeks. After a very brief moment, one or two do.

"Kensi, no…that's not what…"

"I've turned it all over in my head a thousand times, Deeks. All the things I could have done differently, all the things I should have done differently. I should have kept looking for you. I shouldn't have stopped. I never should have…"

"It doesn't matter," he says. "None of that matters anymore."

"It does. What you went through…"

"We both went through hell," he says.

"It's not the same."

"Different scars," he shrugs. "You have yours and I have mine."

It's their first real stakeout together, and they're both going just a little bit mad from boredom even though it's only been three hours that they've been locked away in this nasty little motel room overlooking an even dirtier alley. This whole covert surveillance scenario is ridiculously clichéd and yet there's not a damn thing they can do about it.

Besides make lame jokes, which even they have run out of after thee hours.

"Five hours left," Deeks sighs as he gets up and makes his way back over to the coffee machine for his fourth cup of the terrible brew. Sam had made it on his way out, and well, suffice it to say, the former SEAL has no problem with thick as mud coffee, but Deeks certainly does.

Still, he reasons, caffeine is caffeine and it's going to take a whole lot of it to get through this night.

"We're never going to make it," Kensi shoots back dryly. "If you don't sit down and shut up for longer than two minutes at a time."

"I was sitting."

"For like thirty seconds. Do you really need more caffeine?"

"Seems to me you could use some sugar to cheer you up," Deeks fires back. "No ho-hos? Ding-dongs? Talk about bad planning."

"Deeks, please, I'm begging you."

"Oh, I like the sound of that."

"Whatever," she replies, then turns back to glance down the window. As she does, he sees her hand stray up and scratch at her forearm.

"Got a bug bite?" he asks, dropping down into the chair next to her.

"What?"

"You're scratching your arm."

She looks down. "Oh. No, old habit. It's a scar I got when I was younger."

"I bet you have a hundred of them."

"I have my share," she answers warily.

"Well so do I. And I'm guessing that I actually have more than you."

"You wish."

"Really, seriously, I'm saying right here and now that I know that I can go scar for scar for you and still have some left over afterwards."

"Is this some weird way to get me naked?" she asks.

His mouth falls open, and he has to admit, for a moment, she's thrown him a bit off. He hates that. Still, it's part of why he adores her; just about no one else can keep up with him much less win a few battles of sarcasm and wit.

Kensi Blye, though, well she's a scrapper in more ways than one.

And she's won more than a few of their battles.

He recovers quickly, grinning in response. "Maybe." He makes sure to make his tone just lecherous enough.

It works like a charm; she blinks, completely surprised.

Aha. Serve expertly returned.

Then she rolls her eyes.

"Hey, I just figured since we're going to be up in this room all night watching the street and waiting for Corporal Hansen to show up and make us have to chase his pasty white ass down, we might as well entertain ourselves in the meanwhile. But if you don't want to play, that's cool. I understand."

"All right, fine, we'll...play. But I have one rule."

"So do I."

She lifts an eyebrow. "You do?"

"Yep. You have to tell the truth. You don't get to point to a scar you got from splicing your hand on a beer can and say that you got it stopping a bullet."

"Fine by me," she says with a slight smile.

"Why do I get the feeling that was a loaded answer?"

"You're paranoid?"

"Uh huh. Okay, what's your rule?"

"Very simple; when I say I'm done, we're done. No pushing or asking for more information about any…scars. Deal?"

"Ooh, I'm intrigued."

"Deeks."

"Fine, fine, deal. I'll start. Okay, left forearm." He pulls up the sleeve of his red flannel shirt to reveal a long skinny scar on the inside of his forearm. "I'm twelve, I'm working on my bike, and a girl walks by and I try to smile at her, and as I do, the bike falls and my arm goes with it."

"Did you get a date out of it?"

"No. I think all the blood freaked her out. In fact, if I remember correctly, she didn't even stay around to help." He shrugs. "Her loss."

"Uh huh." She points to the scar that she'd been scratching at. "Thirteen, riding dirt bikes with my dad. My bike hit a rock and threw me about twenty feet in the air. Removed about three layers of skin."

"Ouch."

"I didn't cry."

"Of course not."

"Your turn."

He lifts up his chin, points to one on the underside of his jaw. "Skateboarding. I tried to do flip and I went one way, the board went the other. I cracked the hell out of my jaw on the cement. Knocked myself unconscious, too."

"What girl were you trying to impress?"

"You know, I don't even remember her name anymore."

"She didn't stick around either?"

"No. You women really have a thing about blood don't you?"

She laughs. "Not all of us." She lifts her hair and points to a small white scar near her scalp. "Uh, forehead, another bike accident when I was fourteen,"

"Do I even want to guess how many times you've wrecked?"

"Half dozen or so," she replies nonchalantly.

"Really? And you're still riding."

"I look good on a bike," she grins.

He coughs and shakes his head. "Oh no, I'm not falling face-first into that one."

"Why not? You've seemed to fall face-first into everything else."

"See now, that's just mean."

"But no less true."

"Moving on," he laughs. He lifts the bottom of his shirt up, revealing slightly tanned skin. He points towards a red mark on his hip. "Surfing accident. Wiped out, got dragged under by the board. It took one hell of a chunk out of me."

She tilts her head to inspect the slightly jagged scar. "Yeah, it did."

"My girlfriend at the time was watching that one."

"She take good care of you?"

"She did. Most expertly." He smirks and then wiggles his eyebrows just enough to make his point clear.

"You're a pig."

"Yes, I am. You love me in spite of it."

"Love's not the word I would use, Deeks."

"I know," he nods. "Worship, idolize."

"God, stop, " she begs. Even so, she's grinning ear to ear.

"Whatever you say, Princess."

"Please stop calling me that."

"Does it annoy you?"

"You know it does," she answers. He just grins in response. She sighs. "Okay, so, I think we're on the hip now."

"Sure," he nods.

"College, freshman year, I fell out a window."

"You fell out a window?"

"I'd had a bit to drink."

"And you fell out a window?"

"I thought we'd established that already."

"Uh huh, just making sure I heard right."

"You did."

"Well let's see it then." She's about to protest, but he quickly cuts her off. "Uh uh, doesn't count without visual proof."

She shrugs and then lifts up the hem of her shirt, and then scratches one of her fingers over a "z" shaped scar just below her hipbone. "It bled like you wouldn't believe. Course I was too busy laughing to care."

"You're lucky that's the only scar you got from that."

"Wasn't the only cut. My hands were spliced to hell."

He reaches out and takes one of his palms into his hand. He turns it over, and then runs a finger over the soft skin there. "No marks."

For a moment, she says nothing, just stares down at her small hand in his much larger one. She watches the way his finger slides across her palm, tracing the thin lines there.

Finally, in a low voice she replies, "Yeah, no. I didn't…no marks."

He looks up at her and grins.

It's enough to infuriate her.

"Ugh," she grunts, and then shoves him away from her. She turns away from him, and looks back out the window, checking the alley below.

"Okay, okay," he says. "No more recreational scars. Professional only now."

"Fine," she mutters, still refusing to turn back around. She's not about to admit that she's a bit embarrassed by her reaction to his touch.

Mostly though, she's annoyed at how easily he'd climbed under her skin.

Again.

"Kensi, come on, partner, don't sulk," he chides, sounding far too proud of himself. Then, after a sip of his coffee, he says, "Knife wound on the side," he lifts his shirt up. She sees his well-muscled abdomen, but quickly averts her eyes, following the trail of his fingers up to a scar on right side. "Now you want a bleeder, that was it."

"I can beat that. Knife wound, stomach."

"You know, I never took you for shy," he teases after she makes no move to pull up her shirt.

"This is a cheap attempt to get me naked, isn't it?"

"Please," he laughs. "If I was going to do that, I'd do what every other guy you date does, offer you alcohol and throw insults at you." He pauses for a moment. "On the other hand, maybe that is what I'm doing. Sans the alcohol, of course."

"Keep it up, Deeks," she growls. She knows she should be offended by his prior comment, but she can tell he means it completely in jest – he's just looking for the easiest way to annoy her. And dammit, finding it all too easily. Irritated with him, but unwilling to let him know that (though she's quite certain that he knows exactly that) she drops her hands down, and lifts her blue shirt up a bit more, exposing the length of her taut and tanned stomach. Right above her belly button is an oddly shaped somewhat circular dark red mark. It's not like any knife wound that he's ever seen before

"Damn," he says, and suddenly there's a hint of seriousness in his tone.

"Hurt like hell," she shrugs.

"Did you pass out?"

"No."

He stares at her for a moment, and to her credit, she holds the gaze. Doesn't matter, though; as usual, and once again, he sees right through her.

"Yes, you did."

"In the ambulance," she insists. "I stayed conscious for as long as I needed to."

"Was this before Callen and Sam?"

"Yeah. My last job."

"Which was?"

"Special Ops."

"You never did Special Forces."

"No," she agrees.

"So…"

"So, it's need to know," she smiles faux sweetly. "And you don't."

"Okay, that hurt." He puts his hand over his heart. "Painful. So painful."

Her smile grows. She's sure that under his show of humor, he's a bit hurt by her unwillingness to talk about her pre NCIS work. She figures she could talk to him about the unclassified parts of this mission if she wanted to (though to be honest, there are precious few of those), but right now, she's enjoying even a brief moment of knowing something that he doesn't.

She knows she'll pay for it eventually.

"So seriously," he presses. "There's a deep dark side of you?"

"Of all of us, Deeks. I'm sure you have a few cases you'd rather not talk about."

"True, but none that are so-called need to know."

She shrugs. He thinks maybe he sees something though, something lurking deep within her dark eyes.

Fear? No, that isn't right.

Guilt? Remorse? Regret?

Self-disgust?

Anguish and pain?

He doesn't know a lot about what exactly Special Ops is (or at least what it is when Kensi's involved with it), but he's been doing undercover work for a very long time, and he knows that sometimes, what you have to do to get the job done – and to survive – can be enough to destroy your soul if you let it.

"So," she says abruptly. "I think it's your turn."

"Right," he nods, oddly grateful to be returning their conversation back to the lightness of before. He has a feeling that maybe this isn't something he wants to push too hard on. At least not yet.

"Okay, stapler to the chest."

Before he can pull up his shirt to show off his battle scar, she laughs. "As in an office stapler?"

"Yes."

"You got wounded by an office stapler?"

"And you fell out a window."

"I was drunk."

"I was ambushed," he insists.

"By a stapler. Wow."

"You know, you're supposed to be supportive."

"I'm supportive."

"Really? When's the last time you passed up an easy opportunity to mock me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"To be supportive."

"When's the last time you passed one up?" she shoots back.

"Earlier today. When we stopped for sandwiches and you wolfed yours down in about four and a half minutes."

"Wasn't that fast," she mumbles.

"You know," he says, taking another sip from his cup. "Explain that to me."

"What?"

"Why you eat so fast."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm very good at lying," she replies quickly, and once again he thinks maybe he hears a hint of self-disgust in her tone.

"Maybe professionally," he nods. "But personally? You're pathetic."

"What every girl wants to hear, Deeks," she shoots back. "No wonder you're single."

"Oh! Kensi for the win!"

She grins, victorious.

He has no intention of letting her get the victory quite so easily.

"I'll have you know, I'm single by choice."

"Sure you are."

"I'm a man who can't be caged, Kensi. I can't be contained. And you know, I keep thinking, it's probably not right to keep all of this-" he points to himself –"away from all the ladies who might want out."

"All two of them?"

"Really? Two of them?" Then he shrugs. "I suppose I should be happy that you gave me two."

"I was being generous."

"Of course. And what about you? You're not single by choice."

She rolls her eyes. "Show me your red badge of courage from your attack by the vicious stapler, would you already?"

"Of course."

He lifts his shirt just about all the way up, and points to a small dent like mark – just barely visible – right along the side of his upper left ribcage.

She leans forward and surprises him by placing the tip of her finger against the scar. He reacts slightly to her warm touch, but doesn't pull her away. Still, just as mesmerized as she was by the visual of her hand in his, he's nearly awe-struck by the sight of her palm against his chest.

"That's…ridiculous," she says with a laugh, but doesn't move her hand.

"I'll have you know," he replies, "That it hurt like hell."

"Yes, but getting your finger pricked makes you whine."

"It hurts," he insists. "They always say it doesn't, but that's because they're on the other side of the needle. It's easy for them to say that."

"Not much for needles," she admits.

"Me, either," he says, a thoughtful edge coming over him. "Seen a few too many people go the bad way because of them."

"Yeah. Me, too," she answers softly, and there's something in her tone that says that maybe there's more to her comment than just a general dislike of needles.

"Corporal Hansen," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"He's outside. And it looks like he's finishing up the deal. We can make the arrest and be home on the couch within two hours."

"Oh, thank God," Kensi snorts, grabbing her jacket and gun. Deeks follows suit.

Just as they're leaving the hotel room, Deeks turns to face her, "So where would the next scar have been?"

"I guess you'll have to wait to find out won't you?" she chuckles.

"How long?"

"Until I think you've earned the right to know."

"Well then, when you put it like that, I guess I will."

"We both have a few more scars now," she whispers, looking down at her hands. She sees the faded marks on her knuckles, unwanted and un-returnable souvenirs of a mission gone very wrong. Almost as if on cue, her ribs ache and groan with the phantom memory of having been broken months earlier.

"Kensi, looks at me," Deeks says gently. "This…what happened to me, what happened to us…it isn't your fault, and it never was. I have never blamed you and never will. Never." He reaches out and touches his hand to her cheek. His fingers are rough and calloused, but still familiar. "We can go through all of this and what happened to us over and over again, and knowing the two of us, we will, but right now, there's only one thing either of us can actually do to fix any of it. To fix us."

"Finish Kassel," she says.

He nods. "Yeah. He took six months from me. He made me into someone I've fought my entire life not to be. He made me into addict. I owe him."

"We both do," she says, though she has no intention of cataloguing the reasons why. She's content with having the torture of her partner be considered his greatest offense – she simply doesn't want to think about what he did to her.

It's small and unimportant in the grand scheme of things, she figures.

After all, she had consented to what he'd done to her on the couch. Therefore, it was just an unfortunate act that she wished had never happened. Nothing more.

But what he did to Deeks, to her partner, to her friend, well that has to be answered for. One way or the other. Behind bars or beneath dirt.

"You sure about this?" she asks once again, and this time she's the one smiling slightly because the words are familiar, a ghost of a different time – one when he'd saved her life by reaching out his hands to her.

It works; he can't help but laugh as he, too, is hit with the memories. "No."

Once the reports have been filed, Mattias has been threatened, and the good nights have been said, the two weary and bruised up partners make their way to a somewhat dirty and slightly skizzy little dive in North Hollywood (Deeks swears by it, says the prices here are fantastic for even the top of the line ales and imports), and she thanks him with a beer.

After what he'd done back at the football stadium and in the room with all of the crazy red lasers, she figures that it's the very least she can do for him.

He, of course, orders the priciest import he can find on the liquor menu (which at this place, costs about as much as Bud Light at most bars – apparently, Deeks knows his way around the grungy side of town – something she figures she'll have to learn more about the deeper into their partnership they go). Having expected no less than that, she just smirks and tells him that even though his chosen alcohol is semi-expensive, it's still as thin and weak as piss-water.

"How's your back?" she asks him between sips from her bottle of dark ale. Her eyes are on the TV on the opposite side of the bar, and she's somewhat absently watching highlights from a Lakers game that she cares nothing about.

"Hurts like hell," he admits, shifting in his heat. He's been doing that for the last five minutes, making it impossible for her not to notice and comment on.

She snorts.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"That wasn't a 'nothing' snort."

"You know my snorts now?" she asks with a hint of bemusement.

"Getting to, and that one was certainly not a 'nothing' one. So, out with it."

"I'm just…it's just…well you were pretty heroic today."

"I should like where this is going," he says. "But I have a feeling I won't."

"You watch baseball at all?" she asks.

"Sure. I bleed Dodger blue."

"Okay, then you know how they always say that after you make a great play, like a line drive catch that just about rips your glove off and makes you palm feel like it's on fire, that you shouldn't shake your hand and show it hurts?"

"This is your nice way of calling me a wuss, isn't it?" Deeks asks with a laugh.

"At least it was the nice way."

"So, just to make sure I understand, I'm supposed to tell you the same thing I told the medic? That I'm fine?"

"Yes."

"You want me to lie to you?"

"No."

"I don't understand."

She shrugs.

"You know what?" he says. "Next time, I'm letting you get your ass blown up."

"No, you won't."

"No, I won't," he admits. "But I should."

And then she smiles at him, her eyes twinkling.

"Are you…you're screwing with me, aren't you?"

"A bit too easily," she admits.

"Not nice."

She chuckles. And then, her face growing serious, she says, "What you did was incredibly stupid, you know that, right?"

"I've seen you do stupider."

"Really?"

"Every single day. Only you do it so well that everyone thinks it's just Kensi being Kensi. Every day, you go all Xena Warrior Princess on the bad guys, and all of us just whistle along like it's no big deal."

"It is no big deal," she shoots back, seeming slightly offended.

"Maybe for you it's not, but for me, it's still pretty damn impressive. And pretty damn stupid sometimes."

She sighs loudly, making it clear that she doesn't want to continue having this conversation.

"That usually works for you, doesn't it?"

"Hm?"

"When things get uncomfortable, you make a sound, you fidget, you do something and Callen and Sam back right off."

"They know me. They know when there's nothing to say."

"Uh huh. Kensi, we almost got blown up today. Like, into little pieces. I think there's a few things to talk about between us."

'Okay," she answers, taking him by surprise.

"Okay?" He tilts his head. "Wait, what's the catch?"

"Who said anything about a catch?"

"There's always a catch with you."

She smirks. "I'll make you a deal, Deeks. If we make a year of partnership, I'll tell you what my…feelings…about today were."

"Really?"

"Really."

"That's a terrible deal."

"But it's the deal there is. Take it or leave it."

"So, if I somehow miraculously manage to tolerate you for a year…"

She interrupts him with a loud snort.

"Now see, that was your derisive snort. The other one was more of a mocking kind of snort."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, but you tolerate me? I think you need to reverse that."

"Nah. I'm charming and adorable. You're crazy and…"

"Watch it."

He just smirks in response, earning him a punch to the shoulder.

"All right, Partner," Deeks says. "One year. I can do this."

"We'll see," she laughs.

"So it looks like we made it a year," Deeks says softly, still looking into the mirror. "As long as you don't mind the brief intermission."

"I do," she replies. "I mind it a lot."

It's like he doesn't hear her. Instead, still looking at his own reflection, he continues, "Maybe when this is over, I'll ask you to pay up."

"I look forward to it."

"There's a change, huh?" he chuckles, turning to face her. Then, before she can reply, he says. "All right, let's go do this. One last dance for Jimmy Reese."

"Just remember who you actually are, okay?"

"And who is that?" he asks, turning and looking at her with more sincerity than she's ever seen in his eyes. There's pain streaking across his deep blues, and vulnerability seems to be shining out at her like rays from the sun. It's almost too much for her. "Who am I?"

"My partner. My friend," she answers, reaching out and taking his hand. She almost adds "my lover" but stops short – she has no idea where they stand in regards to what they'd done that night. Friendship is easy – beyond that? Who knows. It's complicated. And potentially one hell of a minefield.

He laughs then, somewhat suddenly.

"What?"

"I just realized that you can't keep your hands off of me."

"Seriously, Deeks?" There's no small amount of relief in her tone. It occurs to her that If he's making jokes, even lame ones like this, it means that despite his efforts, Chris Kassel didn't succeed in destroying Marty Deeks. It means that underneath all of the pain that Deeks is wearing like a Kevlar vest right about now, there's still the goofy cop who never quite knows when to shut up.

She never thought she'd miss that guy as much as she does.

He gestures with his eyes down towards her hands, which are still touching his. And then he smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's a valiant attempt.

And an appreciated one.

"Let's finish this bastard," Kensi says with a nod.

"I'm going to need my hands back for that," Deeks tells her, stepping close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

"Right," she replies, not bothering to remove her hands. The anticipation of the moment is filling the room with a kind of thick tension.

"We're going to have a lot to talk about when this is over," he whispers, leaning in towards her, allowing his cool breath to ghost across her cheek.

"Yeah."

"Then let's get to later," he says abruptly, breaking the moment. He steps back and away from her, casts one more glance at the mirror, and then turns and exits the room, leaving her to gaze after him.

It occurs to her then that this nightmare which has consumed every moment of her life for the last seven months is – hopefully - almost over.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and silently asks her father for the strength and courage that she's going to need to get through the next few hours, and then, opening her dark eyes again, she follows after Deeks.

She's not completely surprised to find Callen at her door when she answers it (ever since she'd been released from the hospital, the guys – including Eric – have been dropping by at all hours of the night.) She is, howeve, surprised to see him holding a six-pack of beer in his hand.

"Hey," he says with a smile.

"Hey. I thought you and Sam had a game," she says as she holds the door open to allow him in. Once he is, she shuts and locks the door behind him.

"It was a blowout early so I checked out," Callen shrugs. "I thought maybe we could talk."

She sighs loudly. "Callen, I'm fine."

"I wouldn't be if Sam were missing and presumed dead."

She doesn't have an immediate answer for that so she says nothing at all. It's been almost two months that Deeks has been missing, and no one really believes that he'll be found. No one outside of Eric, anyway, and the chances are that Eric only believes it because the alternative is simply unthinkable to him.

"I've lost partners before," she says finally, thickly. She reaches for a beer, uncaps it and takes a healthy swig.

"Don't do this," Callen says. "Deeks isn't like Dom. What you and Deeks went through…"

"I don't want to talk about it, G. Please."

"I know. And I won't make you talk about what happened during the mission. I…I probably wouldn't want to, either. But if you ever do…you know, want to talk, about any of it, I'm right here. You know that, right?"

She nods.

"I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm doing the best I can."

"And that's better than most people, but Kens…we can't lose you, too."

"I'm stronger than that, Callen. I'll be okay."

He takes a deep breath. "Okay. So three and three?" He holds up the six – or rather five-pack.

"Unless I get to four first."

He chuckles. "What are we watching?"

"House Hunters."

"There's nothing better on?"

"It's ten at night, Callen. There's the news, house shows, home shows, cooking shows and porn. Pick one."

He smiles slightly.

"Not that one."

"I'd never say that one."

"He would."

"Yes, he would," Callen nods. "And if he is alive, we will find him and bring him home. And if he's not, we'll still bring him home."

"We have to."

"We will."

"Good. So, uh, House Hunters then?"

"Fine. You got any chips?"

"In the pantry. But you better hurry, I'm starting on number two now." She holds up one of the bottles of beer.

"Are the house shows any better when you're drunk?" he asks as he retrieves salsa and chips from her pantry.

"Much. "

"That's a relief." He drops down next to her on the couch, not quite touching, but close enough that should she need the comfort (he knows full well that she's nowhere close to being ready to ask for it or receive it yet), he'll be there to supply it. Right now, if that's all he can do, then that's what he needs to do.

It's not near enough to make this nightmare any less for anyone, but he supposes that it's something just the same.

They're in two separate cars. Deeks is driving ahead in a car that he'll claim he boosted if anyone asks. The others – Callen, Kensi and Sam - are behind him in Sam's Dodge Charger. The drive to the mansion where Kassel's son is holding court is short and silent. They all know the plan and they all hate it.

No one says a word.

Not until Deeks parks, touches his earwig and says, "I'm going in." He then adjusts his shirt where a button camera is. A moment later, he pulls the earwig out, and drops it on the ground.

Just in case.

Chances are the camera will get through a quick pat-down or security check (as long as Cavanaugh isn't using anything that can detect a live feed – but if he is, the feed can be turned off), but not the earwig.

And for this horrible plan to work, everything has to go just right.

Deeks takes a breath and then steps up to the front door. He knocks. A moment later, a man appears.

"I'm…I'm here for Justin," Deeks says, slurring his voice ever so slightly.

"And you are, sir?" the man replies, looking him over. His eyes light on Deeks' exposed forearm, where several track marks can be seen. Most of them are genuine, but a bit of makeup has been applied to make them look fresher. The make-up won't stand up to close scrutiny, but it's unlikely that either Justin Cavanaugh or his lackey will care to inspect the wounds too clearly.

No, ideally, Justin will be far too interested in getting Jimmy home to Kassel.

"J…Jimmy. Jimmy Reese. I need his help. Please." He reaches down and scratches at his arm, then adds a slight shake and shudder for effect.

Apparently, it works because the man nods and says, "Stay here. I'll get Mr. Cavanaugh."

"I have to stay here? It's cold, man, and I'm hungry."

"Stay."

Deeks shifts again, but obeys. He continues moving around, though, allowing the button camera to see as much as possible. It's probably five minutes later when Cavanaugh appears, looking slightly rumpled, like he was pulled away from something – or someone – far more enjoyable.

"There you are, Jimmy," Cavanaugh says, grabbing his arm. "We've been looking everywhere for you. Where the hell have you been?"

"I…I don't know. I…went to see that girl…and I barely got away. Man, she acted like she knew me."

"You telling me you got your ass kicked by a girl?"

"She wasn't just any girl."

"So I've heard. How'd you get away?"

"I ran. And I found some dudes downtown who had some stuff."

"They just gave it to you?"

Deeks shakes his head.

Cavanaugh laughs. "You shanked their asses?"

"I needed it…but it wasn't…it wasn't like the stuff Mr. Kassel has…"

"No, I'd imagine not." He turns to the guy at the door. "Check him over, make sure he's clean, and then bring him inside. I'm pretty sure my dad is going to want him home tonight."

"Yes, sir," the doorman says as he starts to pat Deeks down, taking no care to be gentle or non-invasive.

"You are a valuable asset, Jimmy. My dad wasn't pleased when he thought he'd lost you. He'll be happy to have you back."

"I just want some stuff, man."

Cavanaugh shakes his head in disgust. "Fucking junkies. He good?"

"Yes, sir. He's clean."

"All right. Do a check to make sure he doesn't have any trailers or shadows."

"Got it," the guard says before moving away again.

"No one followed me," Deeks insists mildly.

"Like you'd notice if they did," Cavanaugh says with a shake of his head. "You druggies never notice anything. All you care about is where the needle is."

The first time Marty Deeks puts the needle in his arm, he almost throws up. It gets easier after that. After awhile, he stops noticing or caring about the pain or discomfort.

He just wants the release.

The peace. The ability to forget that he's being held prisoner by a madman who wants to destroy everything that he is.

It's amazing how quickly you stop caring about what you've become when nothing hurts. It's amazing how much you'll do to get that feeling of calm.

Pretty much anything.

Including kill.

On the night he goes to Kensi Blye's apartment, his instructions are simple – kill the woman and be rewarded.

It's all he cares about.

"He's gone inside with Cavanaugh," Callen says, watching through binoculars. "We have video, Eric?"

"We do," the tech replies. "Kensi, it's streaming to the URL I gave you earlier. Punch it up on your iPad."

"Doing so now," she says, quickly typing in the URL. The page refreshes to show video of Deeks making his way into the mansion, followed closely by Cavanaugh.

That's when she sees it.

Deeks is walking a few steps ahead, of Cavanaugh, trying to act the role of Jimmy who has no idea how endangered his life is. He's ambling, and off-balance, twitchy and nervous. He's making his way towards the Living Room, touching things as he goes.

He never sees Cavanaugh pick up the beet bottle off the table.

"Deeks!" she calls out, knowing that he can't hear her. She feels utterly helpless.

It's maddening being in the rear with the gear, but ever since her return to duty, that's pretty much been where's been. She's not allowed to be in the field, and she's all but useless around the office.

And so for the most part, all she does is watch the screens as Sam and Callen work the jobs. She sees them go into buildings where gunman are waiting for them. She can only stand and watch.

She's going just a little bit crazy.

Kensi Blye is not one for doing nothing at all. Especially not when everything in the world is going straight to hell.

The guys know it. Hetty knows it. Everyone knows it.

And yet, there's nothing that can be done about it.

All she can do right now is watch and listen and wait.

And hope that at the end of the day, she doesn't lose any more family.

Marty Deeks feels the sharp pain of something solid – like a glass bottle – as it comes down hard on the back of his skull.

He sees nothing but bright light for a moment, and then darkness. He feels himself tumble to his knees, and then collapse onto his back.

And God if this all doesn't feel so horribly familiar.

He forces himself to open his eyes and look up. When he does, he sees Cavanaugh above him.

"You ran away from us."

"No…"

He thinks maybe he's going to throw up. He wonders where the others are. Are they on their way in?

Please?

And then he remembers the mission. The plan.

He has to convince Cavanaugh to take him to Kassel.

"You did. We took care of you, and you disappeared. How do we know you don't think you're Deeks again, Jimmy?"

Deeks blinks. His mind whirls. This is all too much for him. His grasp on his sanity feels so fragile and tentative.

He knows who he is.

At least he's pretty sure he does.

Deeks, right?

No, not for right now.

Jimmy. He has to be Jimmy.

"Deeks never existed," he gasps out. "I'm Jimmy."

"Yeah, well how'd you find me, Jimmy? How'd you find this place?"

"Sanchez."

"Paul?"

"They let me in as Deeks. And Sanchez, he sung like a bird."

"I bet he did. So what about the woman? Agent Blye. What happened?"

"She got the jump on me. I…was off..I needed."

"I get it," Cavanaugh growls. "You needed a hit. Jesus, junkies are useless. Did you recognize at her? She seem familiar?"

"No, but she sure acted like she really knew me. And they all said they knew me. They really believe this Deeks guy is a real person."

"Yeah. How'd you get away from them?"

"I told you; I ran." He knows it's weak, but the way Cavanaugh is treating him – like he's an idiot five year old – Deeks thinks this story might just be good enough. Thankfully, even if Cavanaugh has all of his father's sadistic steak, he seems to be lacking his old man's savvy and paranoid intelligence.

"They just let you go? Just like that?" He seems more curious than suspicious.

"I told them what they wanted to hear. They want to believe it so badly. They want this Deeks guy so much. Especially her. I…I think she's in love with him."

Cavanaugh laughs. "And you? What do you feel for her?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. She means…nothing."

"Good boy. You want a hit, good boy?"

Deeks swallows hard, tears in his eyes. The truth is – and it's a horrifying truth for him – he does want a hit. Desperately so.

"You do, don't you?"

"Yes." He's not sure if he's acting anymore.

"As soon as you're back home, we'll get you one. But my dad is going to want to talk to you. He's going to want hear all about your old buddies. All about her."

"Just…please." He hates the weakness he hears in his voice.

"Don't worry, Jimmy, it's almost over." And then with that, he lunges out and kicks Deeks across the face as hard as he can. There's a crack and a stream of blood down his face, but Deeks feels none of that.

All he feels is his consciousness slipping away. And he can't help but wonder if his nightmare is about to begin anew.

TBC…