Staples? Really?
Did you know they use staples to hold your skin together? As in actual metal staples? That's not right, surely. I mean, stitches are bad enough, but staples… that's in another league of wrongness. An 'out-of-this-universe' sort of league. I made sure I wasn't looking when the nurse started to haul them out of my leg, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that she used a staple remover. Talk about creative uses for office equipment. What's next? The propelling pencil with a 5H lead as a weapon for poking your eye out? Right now, nothing would surprise me. Of course, there is that flick knife Hetty likes to pretend is a letter opener… Maybe I should get in touch with the Department of Defense and suggest that instead of buying all these guns, and ammo, and rocket launchers, they could just have a quick browse through a stationery catalogue. It would save the tax payer a hell of a lot of money. It might even save enough money to give us law enforcement people a wage rise. Call me cynical, but that isn't ever going to happen, is it?
I was almost expecting Kensi to ask if I'd put on clean underwear this morning before we left my apartment this morning for my hospital appointment. Actually, the way Kensi has been acting lately, I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd tried to have a quick underwear inspection, just to make sure I wasn't going to disgrace her. I have no idea why Kensi thinks that I can't look after myself – apart from the fact that right now I'm a bit useless, on account of my leg. But it's not as if I asked for that - it wasn't my fault that I got shot, was it? I didn't wake up that morning and think 'Hey, things have been kind of dull around here lately. How about I get myself shot, just to liven things up a little?' Anyway, she's done a great job, but I can't cope with having her around here for much longer. I lay awake all last night, knowing that Kensi was in the next room and I just thought about her. Nothing else, honestly. Which is a bad sign for me. But I just thought about Kensi and how near she was – and how I was never going to have her in my life as anything except my partner and how much that sucked.
She noticed that I hadn't slept much. Of course she did. I can't slip anything by her. Right now I feel as if Kensi has got me underneath a microscope and is studying my every movement.
"Are you alright?" That look was back on her face: the worried one. And that makes me feel so guilty and so useless, knowing that I'm giving her all this grief.
"I'm fine. I just didn't sleep much last night."
"Was your leg hurting? Is it alright? Do you want some more painkillers?"
"Kind of, yes and no. In that order."
I want to tell her just to leave me alone, but how can I? She's only doing what Hetty has told her to do – which is to look after me. I'm sure there are loads of things Kensi would rather be doing, but she's doing her job, and she's doing it pretty well. The only thing is that it is killing me. She's killing me with kindness and I don't want Kensi to be kind to me. I want her to be enticing and teasing and funny and as hot as hell, so that she sends the blood bubbling through my veins and so that my spine seems to crack into place when she walks into a room. I want to tell Kensi that I just have to get the merest hint of her perfume and my mind is so full of her that I can hardly think straight and that I want to make long, slow love to her, in a thousand different ways.
Of course, I say none of these things. That would ruin everything. First of all, Kensi would think I'd definitely lost my mind, and then she'd run out of here, screaming. I can't say I'd exactly blame her. I've not got the greatest track record when it comes to women, after all. The fact that I'm in my thirties, still single and the longest relationship I've ever had is with my dog pretty much says everything you need to know about me, doesn't it? What really bothers me is that if I did say something, then I'm pretty sure I'd find myself transferred back to LAPD so fast it would make me dizzy. So I don't say anything. Not a single word. I just drink my coffee like a good boy, and then I let Kensi drive me to the hospital.
I'm almost certain that Kensi would have come into the doctor's office with me, given half a chance. So I had to make sure that I planted myself firmly in the doorway and the crutches were actually pretty effective in making sure she couldn't try to sneak past me.
"I won't be long. Why not get yourself a cup of coffee while you're waiting?"
Kensi looked kind of crestfallen at this. I think she wanted to tell the doctor all about what a lousy patient I was: how I didn't take my tablets, didn't eat enough and did stupid things like have a bath when she left me alone for ten minutes. I don't need any more of that sort of ritual humiliation, nor do I want Kensi to witness the unedifying spectacle of a grown man standing in a doctor's office with his pants down around his ankles. Why couldn't I just have got shot in the arm?
"That's healing very nicely," the doctor says, after studying my leg, back and front, while I stand there, staring up at the ceiling and trying to pretend I am somewhere else. "We can probably get those sutures out today, and you should feel a lot more comfortable."
"Can I lose the crutches too?" I make a grab for my pants to try to pull them back up, which isn't as easy as it sounds when yo've only got one eg that works properly and are balanced precariously on said crutches.
"Not for another week. You've got to give yourself time to heal properly."
"But I can go back to work, right?" Okay, I'm pushing it, but hey – what have I got to loose, right?
The doctor gives me this patronizing smile. Have you noticed how good doctors are at doing that? I reckon they probably have a special course in that at Medical School. 'Mildly demeaning: the raised eyebrow as a medical speciality'. It's probably oversubscribed.
"She said you would say that."
"Who? My partner?" How could Kensi betray me like that?
The doctor looks at his notes. "A Miss Lang? Miss Henrietta Lang. She says I am to ignore everything you say and that you are not to go back to work for at least another fortnight." He gestures to a chair. "You do know how lucky you are, don't you?"
Oh yes, I'm really lucky to be hirlping around in a highly unattractive manner with the world's hottest jailor looking after me. Nothing like adding frustration on top of all my pain and suffering. I must have looked kind of skeptical because the doctor fixed me with a beady glare.
"You're lucky to be here, Mr Deeks. If it wasn't for the swift action of your colleagues, you wouldn't be sitting in that chair right now. You'd be in the mortuary."
Okay, the bedside manner was decidedly lacking there. Why didn't he just kick my crutches out from under me when he had the chance?
"Really? I don't remember much about it." Apart from the pain, of course. And the terror. I kind of thought I might be dying, you see. And Kensi. I remember Kensi. She was right there then and she's been right there for me ever since. And it's killing me, little piece by little piece.
He looks at his notes again and I get the impression that Hetty has given him detailed instructions about what he can and cannot tell me. His next words confirm my suspicions. "Why not ask your team about it? I'm sure Miss Lang would be happy to fill you in. She's just out there, so why not ask her?"
"That's not Miss Lang." This must be the first time anybody has confused Hetty and Kensi. Under other circumstances it would be hilarious. "That's not Hetty. Miss Lang, I mean. That's Kensi. My partner."
"Ah. I thought there was something more than just a working relationship between you two."
I don't correct him. Why should I? It's not like I'm ever going to see the man again. Besides, I kind of like the idea that other people think we're a couple. I'm good at deluding myself.
The nurse comes through at that point and leads me off to a treatment room, where she removes the staples and I wonder what sort of perverted mind thought up that bright idea – stapling torn flesh back together. I don't care how effective it is; the whole idea just grosses me out. Would you believe she actually asked me if I wanted to see them afterwards? I nearly asked her if she wanted to see a grown man fall down on the floor in a dead faint, but to be honest, she didn't look like she had much of a sense of humour, so I kept my mouth shut. When a woman is fussing around your inner thigh with antiseptic and dressing, I've found this to be the prudent thing to do.
"Well?" Kensi practically leaps out of her chair when I eventually come out, like a racehorse that's been straining to get out of the starting gate; all long legs and flowing hair and eyes that are so huge and dark.
"He's doing fine," the doctor says, like I'm not able to talk for myself. "The wounds are clean and healing nicely. He just needs to take things easy for another couple of weeks and not do anything too strenuous. I know I can rely on you to make sure of that." I don't like the tone of his voice. I especially do not like what he is implying, mainly because Kensi will kill me if she discovers I didn't set him right about the whole 'partner' thing earlier on. But amazingly, Kensi doesn't say anything, she just colours a bit and then bites her lip and nods her head.
"I didn't say anything," I reassure her as we walk back to the car. "I don't know where he got the idea we were involved."
Kensi just looks at me, and I've no idea what is going through her mind. "Of course you didn't, Deeks," she says dully. "After all, there's nothing to say, is there? We're just partners."
We drive to the Mission in silence. I goofed there, I know that. Now, if only I could work out what I did that was so wrong, maybe I could make it all right again? But I'm not going to ask and she's not going to say, so we sit there in silence. How come I just manage to upset Kensi all the time? That's the last thing I want to do. It's just like I can't help it, because that's the way things are between us. And I hate that. I hate what I've trapped myself into.
Someone has scrubbed the sidewalk since my last journey past. There's no trace of my blood now – everything has been wiped clean, just as if it never happened. Still, I can't help kind of staring, like there should be a plaque or something. 'Here lay Marty Deeks, a really dumb bastard, who never knew a good thing when it was staring him in the face'. Story of my life, don't you know?
Kensi parks right outside the doors and when we go in it's Nell who spots us first. She lets out a strangled squeal of "Deeks!" and come bounding across the room towards me. For one moment I think she's going to bowl me over and I brace myself for the assault, but she skids to a halt and then just stands there looking at me. This is getting seriously disconcerting. Why do people keep looking at me like Elvis has just walked into the room?
"I missed you," she says and then reaches up and puts her hand on my cheek.
For some reason there's a huge lump in my throat. But big boys don't cry. "So how come you didn't come visit me in the hospital?" I mean it as a joke, but it misfires.
Nell blinks a couple of times. "Don't you remember? I was there every day."
"He was kind of out of it, Nell. The doctor says it's not unusual." There's a warning note in Kensi's voice.
"Sorry." I'm not quite sure I'm apologizing to or what I'm apologizing for, but sometimes it's safest just to apologise anyway. Especially with women. I think of it as kind of like an insurance policy – you never know when it will come in handy. Or save your skin. Luckily I'm saved by the appearance of Sam and Callen
"Deeks!"
Why does everyone have to keep saying my name? I might have lost a chunk of my memory, but I still know who I am.
"I hardly recognized you with your clothes on." Sam is grinning broadly at his own wit. He punches me on the arm, which is quite something coming from Sam. It's practically a declaration of undying love, if you really want to know.
Callen just stands a short distance away, with a smile on his face. "Good to have you back, Deeks." Of course, he's been here before: he knows what it is like to come back almost from the dead. It's kind of overwhelming, if you really want to know. Everything is the same – only it's all changed at the same time, if that makes sense. Or maybe it's me that's changed? It's like I can see clearly now, for the first time in years. I know exactly what I want and of course that has to be the one thing I can't have. Namely Kensi. Oh God, I want her so much it hurts.
"It's good to be back." Our eyes meet for a second and I know that I am not fooling him for one instant. Callen knows exactly how I feel. I want him to tell me that everything is going to be alright, that I will get through this. He looks at me and gives me a small nod.
The next moment, everyone is there: the whole team, which is pretty much everyone I care about and who cares about me. Plus one other. Director Vance. I look at him and my heart sinks. This isn't good. He walks towards me, and it's kind of like Moses parting the Red Sea, the way people scatter out of the way. You wouldn't know there was anyone else around from the way Vance acts: he just walks straight forward, not looking to left or right, so confident is he that people will automatically get out of his way. Our esteemed director is not exactly a people person. I'm not entirely sure he's a person at all, because the milk of human kindness is singularly lacking in his make-up. Vance treats everyone the same: namely like dirt. I wonder if he's going to dress me down in front of everyone for my stupidity in getting myself shot.
"Detective Deeks." He gives me this look, which is broadly similar to the one I use when I've stepped in something unpleasant. There's no need for that, because it's not exactly difficult to pick up after your dog, is it? I wonder how Kensi's coping with the havoc that liver's been wreaking on Monty's digestive system? She's not said anything, but I sure she won't be feeding him raw meat again in a hurry. I notice she'd had to go out and buy more poop bags this morning, which is never a good sign.
"Director Vance." I try to compose my face into something appropriately blank, but my bad leg is shaking hard.
"Nice work there." It's really hurting him to have to say this, I can tell. That toothpick in his mouth twitches convulsively.
"Thank you." What else can I say? I've no idea what he's talking about. Only Vance is staring at me, and it's kind of disconcerting. I feel like I've got to say something else, so I add, "I was just doing my job. Sir." I reckon that should just about cover all the bases. I hope it does.
"Yes. Well, anyway – you did a good job. Well done." He actually shakes my hand, which takes some nifty maneuvering with the crutches, I can tell you. He tries to give a friendly smile, like we're mates or something, only it doesn't quite come off. Somehow I don't think Vance has got a whole lot of friends, because that chummy smile looked more like a rictus. After that, he beats a hasty retreat.
"Okay – do you want to tell me what that was about?" I look around the room and get only a whole load of blank looks in return. It's up to Hetty to leap into the breach.
"Director Vance was just visiting and he wanted to thank you personally. There's an official note being put on your file."
Whoopee. Somebody hold me down, because the excitement's too much. A note on my file? That takes me back to school… "Martin was found in the girl's locker room. Again.' You know the kind of thing. They never bothered to ask why I was there, did they? I mean, there were lots of times when I was invited in, and it would have been rude to say 'no'. As well as completely insane. Who in their right mind would turn down an offer like that? Especially when it was Veronica Latimer, head cheerleader and all-round hottie who was doing the asking?
Wait a minute. Director Vance just happened to be visiting? Does Hetty think I lost some major IQ points when I got shot? It's far too convenient that the Director of NCIS (who is based in Washington, let's not forget, boys and girls) just happens to be here when I come limping in. But that's not important, not compared with all the other things I want to know. It's not important at all. There were still too many holes that have to be plugged.
"No – I don't care about that. I want to know what happened when I got shot. Everyone keeps making these veiled allusions to it – and I can't remember anything. I need to know."
All of a sudden, nobody will look at me straight: they are all very carefully looking anywhere except at me. And the silence feels like somebody has chucked a bucket of ice-cold water over me.
"The man has a right to now." It's Callen who speaks up. I knew I could rely on Callen. He understands how important this is. I have to confront my own mortality if I'm going to be able to go forward. I've been stuck in stasis for too long and now I need to break free.
Will Deeks ever wake up and smell the coffee slushy plot bunny is lovingly brewing for him? maybe finding out what happened might just bring him to his senses. Maybe. This is Deeks, after all.