I could get used to Kensi being around here permanently, I really could. You can't beat being brought your morning coffee in bed after all, especially when it's brought in by a great looking woman, who is glowing with health.
"I went for a run," she says and I try very hard not to feel envious. I love my morning runs: that's the time when I can get my head together, just concentrating on running and seeing the beach stretch out before me, the ocean glimmering seductively to one side and knowing my body is going to do just about anything I ask of it as I settle down into the rhythm and let my thoughts float freely. Correction: I used to love running. At the moment I'd settle for just being able to walk without crutches and the accompanying pain. Right now I'm this shambling, shuffling parody of my former self and I feel about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
"Great." I take a sip of my coffee, and it's just the way I like it, so that I get the caffeine hit immediately. It's from my favourite coffee shop too. "How did you know to go to Grind It Down?" It is off-the main drag after all, and I have to do an extra loop on the days I go there. I learned my lesson a year or so back and make sure I change my routine daily. I don't want to get Sam on my back again. Once was bad enough. It was almost worse than getting shot. I know Kensi says that Sam only rode me so hard because he loves me, but there is tough love and then there is tough love, Sam Hanna style. Which is the Marine assault course version of tough, in that if it doesn't kill you it will make you stronger.
"Oh, Monty showed me," Kensi says airily. Sure enough, my traitorous dog is sitting at her side, looking up at her adoringly.
"Just for a handful of liver you left me*," I misquote, but it's lost on both of them. Now, I thought that was pretty clever but I should save my talent for a more appreciative audience, like Hetty for example. I just hope that's not tempting fate or anything. The last thing I can cope with right now is Hetty turning up again.
"Yeah, right." Kensi looks at me curiously. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Just peachy."
"Good." She seems a little distracted. "I'm going to have a shower and then go grab some groceries."
"Fine."
"You'll be okay?"
Exactly what does Kensi think I'm going to get up, stuck here in bed? It's not like I'm going anywhere, is it? And it's certainly not like I've got some kind friend to make the lonely hours pass a little faster. At this rate I might even be reduced to watching the box-set of Twilight ovies Eric gave me as a gag Christmas present. My sides are still sore from the hollow laughter that gift engendered, I can tell you. The mood I'm in, I might even be able rival the prolonged period of petulance that sulky girl indulged in. Okay, so I watched the movies once. It was all Bethany's fault: she thought the guy that played the werewolf was (and I quote) 'cute'. I thought otherwise. I also thought I'd rather cut my wrists before I ever watched that stuff again. Having my tonsils out was considerably more entertaining. However, I don't think Bethany appreciated my running commentary, which was the only way I could manage to get through the endurance test, because I never saw her again after that night. If only I'd known, I would have given the DVDs as a leaving present.
"I'll be fine," I assured her and then watched as Monty trotted away at her heels, seemingly in thrall. Well, I kind of know how that feels. Kensi has that effect on me too. But this is really great - now my dog has deserted me too. So much for being him being faithful and loyal. Somebody needs to tell Monty that he's meant to be man's best friend. Mind you, I wouldn't want to be stuck here with me either, if I had a choice. Apart from anything, it seems ages since I had a shower, on account of this leg wound, which I've been told I have to keep dry. I'm not quite sure what would happen if it gets wet (although I do keep thinking of that scene in Gremlins) but I'm suitably terrified. However, even if showers are forbidden, nobody said anything about baths, did they? And as long as I sort of drape my leg over the side of the bath, I should be fine. What could possibly go wrong?
I'm careful to wait until I hear the front door close, meaning that Kensi is safely out of the way. There is no sense in actively inviting disaster, is there? And then I'm still so scared that she might come back that I almost tip-toe across the room. Have you ever tried tip-toeing when you're on crutches? Don't bother, because it doesn't work. But eventually I make it into the bathroom, and sit down on the side of the bath in order to turn on the taps. It's funny how being on crutches reduces everything to a complicated series of maneuvers – you can't just do something, you have to plan it all out in advance and break down things into small steps.
Take something as simple as having a bath. It sounded fine in theory. In practice, it's a bit more difficult, but I eventually I manage to lower myself into the water, all the time holding my bad leg up. Dignified this is not. I'm never going to laugh when I see one of those infomercials about the baths with the door in the side of them for people with restricted mobility. People like me. Right now they seem like one of the most brilliant inventions ever. But if it was a struggle getting into the bath, it is worth it now. Lying back in the hot water feels incredible. For the first time in days I'm starting to feel a bit more human, rather than this pathetic invalid just lying around and cluttering the place up. I'm sure I smell a whole lot sweeter too. With a bit of careful sliding down, I even manage to wash my hair. All in all, I'm feeling a whole lot better and I'm just lying there, wondering in an abstracted sort of way about how the hell I'm going to get out of the bath, when all of a sudden the door crashes open and Callen and Sam burst in.
Have you ever noticed how life has this really bad habit of sneaking up and biting you on the butt when you laast expect it? When all your defences are down (metaphorically speaking)? This is one of those times. One minute I am lying there, relaxing in the hot water and feeling the stress seep out of my body, the next I'm looking up at my team mates in horror. I almost shriek like a girl, but somehow I manage to choke it down. There's really not a whole lot I can do, given I am lying almost completely flat in the bath, with my bad leg carefully slung along the side. It is definitely not the most graceful position to be found in and given they have seen pretty much everything there is little point in going all coy. So I settle for just glaring at them, with as much dignity as I can summon up, which is precious little, given the position I'm in. But what the hell are they doing here? In my bathroom, while I'm in the bath? Aren't I allowed even a shred of dignity?
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Deeks?"
Now, I know Sam isn't from California originally, but surely they have baths in New York? Isn't it kind of obvious what I'm doing?
"I'm having a bath, Sam." I say this with as much dignity as I can muster, which is precious little, given the circumstances.
"He's having a bubble bath." Callen is trying his best to keep a straight face, but he's not particularly successful.
Pushing my wet hair out of my eyes, I glare at him. "It's shampoo." Actually, it's bubble bath. Is there a law that says a man can't enjoying a bubble bath in his own home? And is it really too much to ask that he can do this without an audience? Well, clearly it is, if that man is called Marty Deeks.
"Nope, it's bubble bath." Sam picks up the container and studies it carefully. "It says it's for 'fragrantly cleansed skin'. Are you fragrant, Deeks?"
Nope - I'm mad, that's what I am. "Kensi must have brought that over." Then again, maybe she bought it, along with the hot chocolate, the marshmallows and that candle that suddenly materialized without warning. If I'd wanted a candle, I would have bought a candle. The hot chocolate was good though. Why can't people just butt out of my life and leave me alone?
Callen looks around, as if he's expecting to find Kensi perched on the toilet or something. "Where is Kensi?"
"She's out."
"What's she doing going out and leaving you alone?" He sounds really annoyed.
Do you know something? The last time I looked, I wasn't a little kid. And I'm suddenly aware that the bubbles are gently dissipating and the fact that I am not a little kid is only too obvious. And Kensi is not my keeper. Although Kensi is a keeper, of course. That kind of goes without saying.
"What are you doing here?"
Apart from standing staring down at me and looking all superior because a) you're both fully clothed, b) I'm naked and c) you've not got one leg slung over the side of the bath disclosing all your God-given assets to all and sundry. This is not the strongest position I've ever been in and that's the truth.
"Seeing far too much for comfort." Sam pretends to shudder. I consider letting myself slide back under the water so I can drown.
"I'm going to have nightmares about this tonight." Callen picks up a towel and then he and Sam manhandle me out of the bath. I give in as gracefully as possible, which isn't saying much.
Sam looks around the room. That's doesn't take long: it's not a big bathroom. "Where's your robe?"
"I don't have a robe." I wrap the towel around my waist and wonder what it is with NCIS agents and their preoccupation with robes?
"You do now." Kensi breezes in with a large carrier bag, pulls out a robe and hands it to me. It's quite nice, I guess – if you like navy blue toweling. At least it makes me feel slightly less vulnerable. There is nothing quite as disconcerting as being the one naked person in the room. Especially when one of the other people in the room happens to be your partner. Your female partner, who you kind of like. Just a bit. And exactly why is the whole team suddenly congregating in my bathroom? Seeing as I live alone, I've never got around to putting a lock on the bathroom door, a fact I know regret and vow to remedy as soon as possible. Or maybe I should just bow to the inevitable and install a revolving door instead?
At least she waits until I've got the robe on before she launches into me. "What the hell were you doing, Deeks?"
"He was having a bath," Sam says helpfully and nearly earns himself a smack from Kensi for his troubles.
"Why were you having a bath?"
This is like that game they used to make us play at school: Twenty Questions. "Because I needed to?"
"You'd better not have got that dressing wet." Kensi makes a grab for the hem of the robe, like she's going to inspect the wound. Can I just say that the bullet hit my upper thigh? As I said before, it's a good thing I've got fast reactions, so I manage to grab both sides of the robe and hold on tight, even if the crutches do skid a bit. Quite a lot, actually. For a second I think I'm going to go crashing down onto the floor, but in the end I just kind of lurch drunkenly into Sam, who grabs hold of me, but manages to almost send Callen flying in the process. I'm sure if you saw this on one of those shows where people send in their home videos you'd find it hilarious, but when it's actually happening to you, and you've got this nasty suspicion that you might just have torn the wound back open, it's not that funny.
"Shit." It's a good thing that Sam is strong and that he's got a firm grip on me, because there's a burning flame shoot through my leg and the world goes slightly dark around the edges. I feel kind of sick.
"Give us some space."
Nobody argues with Sam when he speaks in that tone of voice. Not even Kensi. The bathroom is suddenly blessedly empty and he lowers me gently down onto the side of the bath and then put his hand on the back of my head and pushes it down between my knees. "Just breathe. Take it slow."
After a couple of minutes the world stops spinning around. "Thanks. Do me a favour?"
Sam just looks at me. "I'm not styling your hair for you." That probably sounds kind of heartless, but it isn't. It restores normality, so that I don't feel quite so pathetic and useless.
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to, but I need to check and make sure I've not ripped any stitches…"
That's not quite as mad as it sounds: you see, when a bullet goes in, it's also got to get back out again. And it generally makes a bigger hole as it exits. Gross, I know, and probably way too much information, but you see why I needed Sam to help me check for any damage. I'm not quite up to doing any contortions right now. I've got to give Sam due credit: he helped me and he didn't make a big deal out of it. And by some miracle, all the stitches had held. Stitches freak me out. Wounds I can cope with, ditto for broken limbs – and I can deal with people puking up, but stitches turn my stomach. Especially when those stitches are in me. Don't ask me why, it's just this thing I have.
"We don't have to tell Kensi about this, do we?" I'm pleading. I know it and Sam knows it.
"Are you frightened about what she might say, Deeks?"
"Terrified." I'm not even going to bother to attempt to disguise that fact.
Sam looks relieved. "Me too. Kensi will probably kill me if she finds out I've been sneaking a peek at your butt."
Actually, it's more like my upper thigh, but no matter. And what does he mean by that anyway? "Callen will probably be wildly jealous too."
We look at each other.
"So we're never going to talk about this – agreed?"
"Agreed."
Either Callen has been doing some sweet-talking, or he carries about major-duty tranquillisers, because when we get back out to the living room, Kensi doesn't say anything. Mind you, she doesn't have to, because that boot-faced look she's wearing says it all.
"We bought you a smoothie maker. And all the fixings." Callen points to a large box sitting on the table, along with a basket filled with fresh fruit and vegetables. I'm genuinely touched. I also make a mental note not to let Kensi anywhere near it, after the last smoothie she made contained not just grapes, but grape stalks. 'Interesting' would be one way to describe the resulting concoction – but it's not necessarily the word that springs to my mind. There is roughage, and then there is indigestible.
"You need to make sure he eats, Kensi." Sam sounds like he's my mom or something. "I could count all his ribs in there."
That wasn't all he could count. I try to blot out the fact that I was basically exposing myself to them. But it wasn't my fault. Surely a man has a right to expect a little privacy in his own bathroom for crying out loud? Well, not if his name is Marty Deeks and he's a member of the NCIS OSP, obviously. Still, it could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been Hetty walking in on me. Or maybe even Hetty and Nell. That would have made her perky little hairdo wilt and no mistake. Oh well, maybe they'll stop going on about how I'm not really a natural blond now they've seen the evidence. I can but hope.
"Don't blame Kensi: it's not her fault. I'm not the easiest of patients."
Kensi flashes me a grateful look that softens her words "If you'd just do as you're told, Deeks. Like staying in bed. I would have helped you when I got back."
I can feel myself redden as I think about Kensi giving me a bath and I just wait for the barrage of sarcastic comments from Callen and Sam, but they both stay quiet. Which can only mean one thing – I look more pathetic than I'd previously imagined. It's either that or they are stunned into envious silence at the memory of seeing me in the bath. I rather suspect the former, sad to say.
"Are you coming in tomorrow to pick up that paperwork?" Callen asks Kensi. I sense he is making a valiant effort to change the subject.
"I've got to take Deeks to the hospital for his check-up."
"We could call in afterwards? Just for a while?" For some reason, I kind of want to go back there.
"You're sure?" Kensi looks at me, and that worried expression is on her face again.
"I'm certain." I guess it's like getting back onto a horse after a fall: the sooner you do it, the better it is. And if you don't get straight back on, then there's a chance you might never ride again. So I'll be back at the Mission for the first time since I ran out of the doors straight into a hailstorm of bullets? I got lucky – I'm still here. I'm a bit banged up, but I'm still here. I'm right here, sitting on my couch wearing a robe my partner's bought me and I'm ever so slightly confused. No change there then.
* "just for a handful of liver you left me" is a parody of the opening lines of Robert Browning's poem, The Lost Leader (Just for a handful of silver he left us/Just for a ribband to stick in his coat) after William Wordsworth accepted the position of Poet Laureate.
You will see that I could not resist the temptation to have Deeks in the bath. Again. This seems to be somewhat of a recurring theme in my stories. There is just something about wet, soapy Deeks that works so well. Why haven't we seen this in the show?