The courtyard is quiet: the sun is beating down and being reflected back by the white-painted adobe walls. I sit on a dilapidated bench and stare at this little bird that's having a dust bath: it seems happy enough, completely impervious to everything that's going on inside the Mission, to all the death and destruction that is plotted and planned inside its walls. Life must seem very sweet if you are a small bird on a beautiful day like today.
"Two days, Hetty? I was out of it for two whole days? And you only just think to mention it now?"
"I thought Miss Blye might have said something."
"Well, she didn't. And neither did the doctor, or any of the nurses when I was in hospital. Funny that, eh?" It's not funny. It's not even mildly amusing. It's downright disturbing, that's what it is. I feel like I've been lied to. Wait a minute – I have been lied to. They've deliberately withheld the truth from me and in my book that counts as a lie. And there is only one person who has the authority and sheer power of personality to insist that this was withheld from me. All of a sudden, the glare from the sunlight is hurting my eyes. "How about we talk about this inside?" I'll be able to think better inside. Things will make more sense then. I hope.
I lead the way, and Hetty follows, talking quietly into her cellphone. I know exactly who she is calling, no doubt bringing them back here on the double: my team mates. One of whom just happens to be my lover. My secret lover. In other words, all the people who have been colluding to keep me in a state of ignorance about what happened. This is my body – I have a right to know the full facts.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" Hetty asks, almost nervously as we enter her office area. I've never seen her quite so discomfitted. "I have a rather nice Orange Pekoe."
What I would really like is a belt of Jack Daniels, followed by another couple in quick succession, but even though I'm mad I've got enough sense not to say that, so I just shake my head. It occurs to me later on that was probably the most intelligent thing I could have done, because it tipped the balance of power in my favour. You see, everyone expects me to talk a lot, to provide a humorous running commentary on things. So when I'm silent, it's like the whole balance is upset. Confounding expectations, I think that's what they call it. Or maybe playing against type. Well, guess what? I'm not always in a good mood. There are days when I'm seriously pissed at the whole world, and whole weeks when I'm struggling just to keep going. I just chose not to share that. My personal feelings are none of anyone else's business. Except now. Now I am furious and I don't care who knows it. But I'm going to save my wrath until the rest of the gang of four arrive.
So I just sit in that low chair opposite Hetty's desk, cunningly chosen so she can look down upon her hapless victim, and I brood. You might call it sulking, but I prefer to think that I was thinking really hard and planning my strategy, which isn't going too well. So far all I can think of to say is "It's not fair." That is not going to win me credibility points, mainly because it sounds totally pathetic and ike something a six year old might say. Then again, they've been treating me like I'm about six. I sit and rack my brain, while trying not to worry too much about said brain, and any damage it might have sustained. Because two days is a really long time to be unconscious. I knew I'd hit my head hard, because there's an area about four inches in diameter just below the crown that is still kind of tender to the touch, plus I've been getting these headaches recently. I put it down to coming back to work and just being tired, but now I'm starting to worry. And my head is really starting to thump quite badly.
Meanwhile, as I sit doing my best impersonation of Rodin's The Thinker, Hetty is bustling about her office space, tea cup and saucer in hand. She's not fooling me, because she's not actually drinking her tea. It must be stone cold by now, as Hetty indulges in a little light dusting of her various treasures, clearly her version of a displacement activity. God this place is weird. Seriously weird. They used to talk about a cabinet of curiousities, well this is an office of oddities. Only Hetty would have a shell casing sitting next to a Russian Orthodox Icon and find that perfectly normal. A psychologist would have a field day in here. Maybe that's why Nate was sent away, before he could file a report on her? Anything is possible in the madhouse that calls itself NCIS. I'm beginning to wonder if the Porsche was an attempt to soothe the collective guilty conscience of my team. Either that or a bribe to keep me sweet when I eventually found out. Newsflash: it's not working, guys.
Eventually, the guys come trooping in, trying not to look too hangdog.
"I said we should have told him." Sam at least has the guts to look me in the eye. I remember how he'd behaved when I was newly home (basically in super-protective mode) and it all starts to make sense now I come to think about it.
"Appreciate it, man."
"I was overruled. I told them you'd find out." He sits down, crosses his arms and stares at Hetty. "I told you that Deeks had the right to know. He's not a little kid. And it's his body."
Somehow Sam has managed to put my jumbled thoughts about this whole thing into a few short sentences, and I'm grateful.
"I apologise most sincerely, Mr Deeks. I did what I thought was right at the time. You'd been so very ill and we didn't want to put any additional stress on you, in case it hindered your recovery." Hetty finally stops pacing around like a polar bear in a too small enclosure, sits down and rests her chin on her folded hands. "I really am so very sorry. But it was such a terrible time and we were all so worried."
Great. Now she's making me feel guilty all over again for having the temerity to get shot and nearly die. The woman is a genius. But my anger starts to dissipate, because I know this is genuine. Hetty is completely genuine in what she's saying, and she also really moved. Which means one thing: it was bad.
"How about you tell me about it?" Because the last thing I remember was lying on the sidewalk with Kensi silently mouthing 'I love you' and then there was nothing until I woke up again days later to find I was in a hospital bed with Hetty bending over me. Talk about going from the sublime to the downright scary.
There's a hand on my shoulder and I look up to see that Kensi is standing right behind me.
"You fractured your skull," she says, in a voice that is perhaps just a little too controlled. But only if you know her as well as I do. By now I think I know every single nuance of her voice. "When you went down, you hit your head on the sidewalk with such force that you fractured your damned skull, Deeks." Her fingers tighten so that her nails are digging into my skin, rooting me in reality, and giving me some small insight into the pain my team went through. I was hurt – and they were hurting for me. That makes me feel quite small.
I can hear what she's not saying, the significance of all the words, thoughts and feelings that she can't quite bring herself to actually verbalise and I reach up to take hold of her hand, half-wondering if Kensi will try to brush the intimate gesture away. She doesn't. Instead, she weaves her fingers through mine. And it feels good.
"You fractured your skull, and you were unconscious. That's all they could tell us," Callen adds. "They didn't know why you were unconscious or when you'd wake up again."
"It was worse than that," Sam interjects brusquely. "Deeks – the truth is that they didn't know if you would wake up at all."
"Okay." It's all starting to make sense now. That's kind of scary stuff. And if it's scary for me to hear about, what must have it been like for them to have to live through?
"There's no lasting damage, if that's what you're worried about," Kensi adds, still holding onto my hand for grim death. I wonder if she held my hand when I was unconscious? "None at all. They did a number of tests on you in the hospital before you were released and you came through just fine."
"They said you were normal." A smile creeps across Sam's face. "I said they must have tested the wrong guy, cos you ain't normal, Deeks. No way."
"They said he had no cognitive impairment, Mr Hanna," Hetty corrects primly. "And that there should be no lasting side effects." She peers at me over the top of her glasses. "Do you have side effects?"
There is something in the way that Hetty looks at you that makes it almost impossible to lie. "I've got a bit of a headache." Talk about the understatement of the century. AS headaches go, this one is currently registering about an six on the Richter scale and I've got the definite impression it's about to get a whole lot worse.
"For how long?" Kensi is all crisp efficiency and she drops my hand and comes round to look at me properly for the first time since she came back in. "Deeks?"
I can't lie to her, not when she's looking at me like that, with her eyes so huge and dark. "On and off since yesterday afternoon? But it's no big deal." At least I hope it isn't. It's Thursday and we're leaving for Carmel tomorrow afternoon. Nothing is going to spoil this weekend. Nothing.
"I think we'll let the doctors be the judge of that." Callen is so smooth, so relaxed, you'd almost believe this wasn't a big deal. If you didn't know him, that is. I can see the way his eyes narrow slightly when he looks at me, the way his whole body language changes almost imperceptibly, so that he goes from relaxed to tense in the blink of an eye. "Kensi – you drive Deeks. And make sure he tells them everything."
They're taking charge of my life again, making all these important decisions for me and without consulting me. And you know what? That is absolutely fine. I know exactly why they're doing that – because they are frightened. And because they care about me. So why would I possible object? Especially as there is this band of pain tightening around my head right now.
"Some people will do anything to get the rest of the week off," Sam grumbles in a wholly unconvincing manner. "He's not to come back until Monday, is he Hetty? No matter what the hospital says?"
Hetty shakes her head emphatically. "Indeed no."
That's me told then. I realise that they need to do this, and I need to let them. Life is all about compromises. And anyway, it's just a headache. I'm fine. I am absolutely fine. Aren't I?
"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Kensi asks.
"Anybody can mistime a gear change if they're not used to driving a stick shift," I lie. It was just that I could almost hear shards of metal being sheared off as she crashed the gears and it was hard not to cringe.
"I'm not talking about that."
"Yeah, I know. And I'm not mad at you." It's just that the sunlight is making my headache worse, and even with my sunglasses on and my eyes tight shut it still hurts. "Can we not do this right now?"
"Sure. Whatever you want."
I just want to lie down in a cool, dark room and have some heavy-duty painkillers.
"I really am sorry," she says.
"I know."
And I know I'm repeating myself, only it's getting a bit hard to think straight right now. I can hear the revs increase and the engine change tone as Kensi accelerates through the traffic. If I keep telling myself that I'm fine I might start to believe it. It's starting to get really hot inside the car and I can feel beads of sweat start to form on my forehead. And then there is a blessed blast of icy cold air, as Kensi adjusts the air-con, just in time because I really think I might throw my guts up, right over the interior of this great car. And that's the last thing I want to do. I've never had a new car before and I don't think I'm ever likely to get a brand new Porsche again, so I'm determined not to ruin it within the first week. Even Hetty would struggle to be reasonable and understanding about that, I think.
"We'll be there soon."
I don't open my eyes, for the simple reason that I can't right now. It's taking me all my time not to pass out here, but I can picture how Kensi looks: both hands on the steering wheel and staring ahead with grim determination as she drives as fast as she dares.
"Keep talking." It helps to have something to concentrate on, rather than just the pain. "Tell me what you said to me in the hospital."
"When you were unconscious? What didn't I say to you is more like it." The strained tone starts to seep out of her voice. "Well, I sat there, and I was holding your hand…"
"You've got nice hands, Deeks. I never told you that before, did I? I never said a whole lot of things. But you have got nice hands. Big and strong, but kind of fluid and flexible, with long, supple fingers. If I only saw your hands and had to guess at what you did, then I'd guess you were maybe an artist, or a pianist. Maybe even a surgeon. But not a cop." Kensi picked up the still hand and held it in her own, gently stroking it with her thumb.
Deeks lay completely motionless in bed, save for the regular rise and fall of his chest.
"You look like you're sleeping, do you know that? Like you're sound asleep and perfectly at peace. I don't know where you are right now, or what you are dreaming, Deeks – but you shouldn't be there. You should be right here with me. That place isn't for you, so come back to me. Please?"
Ah- is Kensi finally about to reveal how she really feels? But will it be too late? Evil and Slushy plot bunnies are eyeing each other up once again...