Namaste, Salaam, Shalom, Bonjour, and An Nyeong Ha Seyo! Ladies and Gentlemen I am SO SORRY! Health problems, and medical tests put writing in last place for me since August, but I am determined to get back on the horse. Please forgive me, and accept this humble offering. Thanks to Melbelle and AbrosiaRush as always!
Sitting in the back with the thugs is never fun when you're banged up, but I'm not about to make Callen do it. He didn't have to fight in the first place. The least I can do is give him the heated seat. Besides, this truck glides on the pavement, and even the worst road in the city feels comfortable. I look at the four men my team leader and I have pounded into oblivion. While we're far from unscathed ourselves, they definitely look worse than us. Now that they're quiet and still, how young they are strikes me. They're all huge but so very young. I wonder if they had childhoods like mine or Callen's? We both could have turned into these guys easily. The thought makes my blood run cold, and it kills any pity that I might have. There comes a time in every person's life where he makes a choice about the path his life takes. I'm the first one to admit my crappy childhood has left me screwed up in a lot of ways, but the day I shot 'The Animal', I knew that I'd fight every day not to let myself become that kind of man. Deep down, these guys know that they're wrong. Deep inside all of us, there's an instinct that goes further than conscience, and it tells us how life should be. It's a shame that these kids want to make all the wrong choices, but in the end, they can only blame themselves for what they choose to do with their lives.
We only had two sets of handcuffs with us, so Hank graciously provided some duct tape just in case they woke up. I grabbed my gun from the car as well. The guy who took a header into the glass has a smidgen of my compassion. The glass is bad enough, but to have it happen on the filthiest floor in LA is something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I still remember the infection 'The Animal' got from a bar fight when I was nine. The hospital will have to give him the strongest antibiotics they've got, not to mention run the full battery of test to make sure he hasn't picked up anything. Just as we pull into the parking lot, the goons start groaning. I shake my head and feel my lips quirk into a grin. Hank developed perfect timing after he got sober. One of them (I think it's the ringleader) starts to struggle as he comes to.
"Stop, or you'll hurt yourself worse," I order. "I know my friend and I broke at least a rib each, so settle down. We're at the hospital now," I keep my voice sharp and take the safety off my gun. I smirk as he flinches when he hears it.
He starts to snarl. "Why don't you go and…"
"I'm gonna stop you right there before you say something not fit for my delicate ears," I interrupt. I'm really in no mood to get cussed out by anyone right now. The only person I want to hear that kind of language from is me.
"Pig!" he growls, spitting on my shoes.
I sigh. These are my old gym sneakers, so I can just throw them in the wash with some Tide and no harm done. "I'd say it takes one to know one, but that would be an abhorrent insult to a very intelligent animal. I hate to break it to you kid, but a cockroach has more brains than you."
Just as he launches into a speech degrading my parentage and saying things about my mother that make me want to beat what's left of his brains out, we pull up to the ER entrance, and Callen opens the gate to the bed, yanking the dirt bag by the ankles. "I'd shut up if I were you," he growls softly. "My friend and I don't need much excuse to finish what we started. Besides," he continues with a wide smile, "I'm betting you don't have health insurance. Why should people who honestly pay their taxes pay to patch you up?"
"Look," he gasps through a groan of pain, "if you guys really are cops, you have to take care of us. It's the law!" There's a slight pleading tone in his voice now, and I grin seeing his bravado die.
"He's a cop, I'm not," Callen snaps, as he starts dragging him into the hospital.
I start to help Thing Three out when a deep, rumbling voice comes from behind me. "Hey there, Detective, we've got these guys."
I heave a sigh of relief and gingerly climb off the truck-bed. "Thanks, Murphy. What's our reservation status?"
Murphy is a six-foot-three, two-hundred-fifty pound, giant of a man. He makes Sam look scrawny, but it's scary how much they resemble each other. If Murphy ever shaved his head, they could pass for cousins. I keep telling him he should give up his current job being an orderly and play for the 49ner's, but he likes where he is. "It's pretty quiet tonight. I let the Attending know you're coming in. It should be quick."
"Great," I sigh. "I've got other places to be."
I want to drive over to Kensi's and sink onto her couch. Her place is a disaster, and normally the mess gets on my nerves, but all I want right now is to be surrounded by the smell of gun powder and sunshine and feel calm again.
"She must be an extraordinary woman," Murphy says as he carefully transfers Thing Three into a wheelchair.
"That she is," I whisper, still shaky from how close I came to losing her today.
Thing Three groans, and I turn my attention to him. "Please," he whispers, agony filling his voice. "Please can someone call my mom? I need my mom," he begs.
I kneel down next to the chair, ignoring my ribs' protest. "How old are you, kid?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle. How can someone be nasty to a hurt person asking for their mother? It's not like this guy is a mass murderer.
"Nineteen," he groans as tears fall down his face, mingling with the blood, glass, and sweat in his cuts.
"Okay. I'll make sure someone calls her ASAP," I assure him.
"I will see to it personally, son. What is your name?" Murphy asks, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
The comfort I see flow into the kid through that touch reminds me of the many times Murphy took me or my mom to radiology on a stretcher or in a wheelchair. Whenever 'The Animal' dumped us off here after breaking a bone or when he knew we bled too much, Murphy would be there with a gentle hand, and words of hope. Two other orderlies come out for the other thugs, and I make my way inside. Thankfully, there's only a dull hum of activity in the waiting room. I spot Callen in the corner with the girl and a full view of all the exits. I want to shake my head because even in the hospital he's still covering angles, but my head's starting to pound, so I think better of it.
As I sit in the hard vinyl seats, I wonder what kind of sadist thought that putting sick and hurt people in chairs that a dog wouldn't jump on is a good idea. Whoever started this trend had absolutely no love for his or her fellow human beings. I can't suppress the groan that escapes my throat. The girl gives me a dirty look, and makes a sound of disdain.
"Where's Hank?" I ask Callen, trying very hard to ignore Miss Attitude.
"He went to park the truck," Callen answers, leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes look closed, but I'm willing to bet he sees everything he wants to see.
"The kid with the cuts is only nineteen," I sigh, trying to find a decent position without hurting my ribs too much. It doesn't work, and I bite back a curse.
"He probably started whining for mommy, the self-righteous jackass!" the girl hisses.
I'm ready to just call a cab, head back to the bar to get my wheels, and drive to Kensi's. Screw the bruised ribs, this ungrateful girl, and boys so stupid and weak that they can only become bullies. I even lean forward to stand up, but I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. I turn and look at Callen, who still has his eyes 'closed'.
"I'm not explaining to Hetty why you can't walk tomorrow because you didn't get your ribs wrapped. Gracie will fix us up in five minutes."
I surrender because to ignore him would reject the friendship he's offered me tonight. Besides, while Kensi could wrap my ribs herself, she'd be mean about it. "Dude, you're scary," I mutter.
"That's nothing," a bright feminine voice interrupts. "He's even better at dying on people."
"Really, Grace, get over it," Callen replies with a smirk. "That was three years ago, and I helped you prove once again, that you are the best trauma surgeon in LA."
Grace is the hottest doctor I've ever seen in my life, including the med students I partied with in college. She's blond, with sparkling blue eyes, and legs that give Kensi's some stiff competition. That's saying something because Kensi's legs are proof for me that God exists. I'd put her age anywhere between her mid-thirties to her mid-forties, but her smile has the power to turn men into puddles of goo; it disarms me, so it comes as complete shock when she lashes out at him.
"I don't 'get over' people dying twice on my operating table! Now, who do I have to see first?"
"Jeeze, Doc, that's some bedside manner ya got there," Hank interjects, letting some of his Midwestern accent show.
She turns and faces him with a gaze that I'm sure could vaporize anything in its path if she wanted it to. "And who might you be?"
"I'm with them," Hank replies, casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.
"Oh, I see." Dr. Grace puts a hand on her hip and sighs. "You don't seem to be injured so, perhaps you're the young lady's father?"
The girl snorts. "Not a chance!" she snarls.
"You should be so lucky, missy. You should look at her first, Doc. She's got a bad spiral break, and probably needs a few pins put in," Hank replied.
A small frown puts a tiny crease in her forehead that somehow adds to charm. "Are you a Doctor? Mr…"
"The name's Hank," he supplies, and for a second I think I see a smile threaten to break out on his face. "I just have a lot of experience with broken bones."
"Is that experience in breaking bones or getting them broken?"
I hold my breath. If Callen's a regular patient of hers, it doesn't shock me that she asked the question, but questions like that tend to set off the demons Hank carries around.
"Both," Hank answers curtly.
She stares straight into his eyes for a moment then nods once. "Okay then. What's your name?" she asks the girl with a gentle smile.
"Oh no way!" the girl shrieks. "I'm not telling you just so you can call my parents. I am never going back there!" Her eyes turn feral and she bolts up only for Callen to catch her by the waist. "I'M NOT GOING BACK!" she roars, starting to struggle. "The boys may break every bone in my body, but I'll never go back!"
Then, Dr. Grace steps in front of the girl now clawing at Callen. "G. let her go!" she commands. I'm amazed when he obeys. Then Dr. Grace captures the girl in a tight hug. "It's okay" she shouts over the girl's screaming. "I won't send you anywhere. You don't have to tell me anything! Just let me help you now, and I promise you won't be sent anywhere."
Whether it's the words or the embrace that gets through to her, I don't know, but the girl stops thrashing and screaming. "You won't make me tell you my name?" she asks warily, her voice nearly gone from the hysterics.
"Right now the only thing I care about is your wrist," Dr. Grace says in a firm voice, making sure that the girl believes it. "This is what we'll do. My friend Jane will take you to get some x-rays done, and while that's happening, I'll call the Orthopedic Surgeon here tonight. When you get done, you'll have an examination, and if you need surgery, we'll take care of it. By the time all of that's done, we'll have figured out the rest. Okay?" She brushes a tangled section of the girl's hair off her face, and for the first time the hardness in the girl's eyes melts.
"Okay, I'll trust you for now," she whispers.
"Good," Dr. Grace says with another bone melting smile. "Jane!" she calls out, and a nurse appears by her side. "Would you escort this young lady, and…" she turns to me, "what's your name?"
"Deeks, Marty Deeks, ma'am!" I momentarily forget the pain I'm in, and try to sit up straighter, and quickly pay for it with more pain.
"We work together, Gracie," Callen adds, returning to his 'resting posture.'
"Well, Marty, I'll take a wild guess from the way you're sitting and say one or more of the four goons you came in with got you in the ribs."
"That's about right, Doctor," I answer, feeling like I got my hand caught in the cookie jar.
"Jane, get these two down to radiology and put a rush on them if you can." She sighs and bends down over Callen. "Dare I hope that I don't have to sedate you and do the scans myself to find out the damage this time?"
It sounds ridiculous. I mean, both Callen and I hate doctors and needles, but I've never known Callen to act that irrationally over anything. Still, I hear a genuine note of pleading in Dr. Grace's voice.
"Relax, Gracie. The major damage is to my ugly face, and my right middle finger's broken. So, you wrap it, and I'll be less tempted to be rude."
"Look at me," she orders using her index finger to flick under his chin. He complies as best he can considering one eye is practically swollen shut. "Are you lying to me?"
"Nope."
Her bright blue eyes narrow, and she huffs. "Swear on Mrs. Abernathy's mole!" she demands, and I decide that I'm not sleeping tonight until I get that story.
"For God's sake, Gracie Jean, I'm not in ninth grade, and you're not my biology tutor anymore!" Callen grumbles, and I can see his ears turning red. Her response is to pull at his ear. "Okay! I swear on Mrs. Abernathy's mole! God, you're turning into the old witch more with every passing year."
"Jane, I think we're ready to get the show on the road," Grace commands.
"Excuse me, Doctor. My ribs aren't broken, I've had enough to know," I want to get out of here, so I'd rather not get x-rays if I can help it.
"Mr. Deeks, which of us has to pay malpractice insurance?" she asks, turning those narrowed eyes onto me. She can give Hetty tips in glaring.
"You do, Doctor," I mutter.
"That's right, I do."
"If you'll just follow me, we'll have the pictures done as soon as possible," Jane says with a sweet smile.
I slowly stand up, wincing at the sharp pain in my side. "Just a minute." At the sound of a snide, superior, nasally voice I have to suppress a growl.
"Who are you?" Dr. Grace asks sharply, obviously angered by being interrupted.
"I'm Officer Wilks," he replies, with the same oily snake-in-the-grass smile that he wears whenever we run into each other. "I received a call from one of your patients that he and his friends were brutalized by Detective Deeks and his friend here." Then he turns to me with the gleeful gleam in his eyes that I hate so much. "You and your buddy have to come down to the station with me, Marty, so we can clean up another one of your messes."
There are so many unspeakable, unprintable words flying through my brain right now that I can't choose one to say. Thankfully, Hank always manages to find some appropriate remark for idiots. "Really, Wilks, you've got to tone down your God complex. This is the real world, not some cheesy sci-fi show where you're the villain with a snake in the head! Besides, your wardrobe is all wrong, and you don't have the voice or the glowing eyes."