Huge thanks to everybody who has been reading and reviewing this.

Well, we get back to LA in record time, only to discover the dog-sitter Hetty arranged for Monty has done a pretty good job, all things considered. Which means that although he was sick in the kitchen, at least he didn't eat any of our vast assortment of throw pillows. What kind of a stupid word is "throw pillow" anyway and what exactly are you supposed to do with them? In our house, Kensi arranges them with loving care into these artistic arrangements and I'm not allowed to even lean back on them, so the chances of me being allowed to actually throw one at Kensi are exceeding slim. Non-existent actually. Yes, the age of miracles has not yet passed, because Kensi has become house-proud. Maybe it's because we've got such a great house? She's also stopped eating quite so much junk food, but she's still as hot as ever, so I don't much care. But it is a shame about not being able to throw these pillows, because that could be kind of fun. Kind of like a pillow fight. Only naked. Actually, that seems like a really great idea. I don't know why I never thought of it before.

So, there I am, just about to draw the blinds, when I spot the remains of one of Kensi's favourite pairs of shoes, cunningly tucked behind another one of those throw pillows. Clearly even Monty doesn't dare to disturb the precise arrangement on the sofa, but he couldn't resist tucking the mangled evidence behind one of them. Now, I could be wrong, but I'm guessing they were kind of expensive (the shoes, not the pillows. I know exactly how much they cost and still can't quite believe I was stupid enough to pay so much for them. Only Kensi had her heart set on them, you see.). Now, these particular shoes have red soles, which I think makes them kind of special, although not nearly as special as Kensi looks when she wears them and nothing else at all. It's a look I can highly recommend. Anyway, what's done is done, and it's hardly Monty's fault, so I say nothing and decided to sneak the evidence out with the garbage when Kensi isn't looking. It seems safest that way, especially because Monty is looking particularly unrepentant. Translation: he's happily engrossed in licking his balls. Maybe we should think about getting him a female companion? It doesn't seem right to deprive him of what only comes naturally and he has to take his solace somewhere, doesn't he?

Anyway, Kensi makes straight for the shower the minute we get home, like she wants to wash away all the sordid memories of the past couple of days. Normally I would have been jumping right on in there with her, but I've got to dispose of her shoes and when I lift up the pillow, I discover that Monty has had a consoling chomp at it too, and the feathers go everywhere. So there I am, running around with the vacuum when I could be having some good, clean soapy fun in the shower.

"The things I do to keep the peace in this house," I say to Monty, who decides this is my way of saying what I really want to do is go for a nice long walk.

Now, it would be kind of great to be able to report that when I get back it is to discover that Kensi has lovingly anointed her body with oil and then slipped into some slinky lingerie and is reclining gracefully on the sofa. Or even that she's standing in the bedroom doorway wearing nothing in particular except a beguiling smile and then hands me a bottle of body oil, along with an invitation I can't refuse. Oh yes, that would be great, but that's not the way real life works. Well, not my life, anyway. What actually happens is that I get home to discover Kensi padding around in a pair of old flannel jammies I was almost certain I'd disposed of a few months back. She nods distractedly at me and Monty, and makes straight for the kitchen. When she comes back in, she's carrying a bowl.

"Lucky Charms? Really?" I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. Who the heck eats that sort of stuff once they can sit on a chair and have their feet reach the ground? What does it say about American society that we think it's neat idea to combine oats and marshmallows, then add a ton of sugar and have the nerve to call it a breakfast cereal?

Kensi smiles happily, sits down on the couch (tossing those pillows to one side in a cavalier fashion that would have me denied all conjugal privileges for at least a week) and reaches for the tv remote.

"Yes, really. Lucky Charms."

Flicking through the channels she settles on one of the "Real Housewives" shows. Now the best thing I can say about them is that they actually make my own family look relatively normal, and that isn't exactly a ringing endorsement, is it? And those women are scarey. I mean deeply scarey. It's like they're walking advertisements for why plastic surgery is a bad thing. This particular episode features a woman who also demonstrates exactly why dying your hair jet black is never going to look good, particularly if you already have a forehead that is only half the normal size, so that there is only about three inches between those matching eyebrows and hairline. Not that I actually watch any of these shows, you understand. I only catch small glimpses when I turn over as the commercial breaks come on during Jersey Shore. And I only watch that to remind myself why I live on the West Coast.

"We don't have Lucky Charms." I know this for a fact, because when we go grocery shopping I wait until Kensi is momentarily distracted and then swap all the crap she throws in for healthy stuff – like proper oatmeal and fresh fruit. Stuff that doesn't make your teeth hurt just by looking at it.

"Actually, we do. This is from my secret stash." She takes a large spoonful and a look of rapturous delight comes over her face. "Anyway, it's no big deal. I only use it in cases of emergency."

I prefer a 10-year old malt, myself. Which I also have stashed away in case of emergencies. Seems there's a few secretes going on in this house. Interesting. "It's not going to do you any good – you do know that? It's just full of sugar."

"Which is exactly what I want right now – sweet sugary goo, with no nutritional benefits at all." She holds out the bowl. "Go on – tell me you don't want to go pour yourself a bowl right now?"

Nothing easier. "Kensi - the only thing looking at the bowl makes me feel is nauseous."

"Good – all the more for me." She consumes the rest of her snack with considerable relish and then stretches out her legs and surveys her feet critically. "God, I need a pedicure."

And thus you have a glimpse into the glamorous life of Marty Deeks and Kensi Blye – complete with house-destroying dog, dubious taste in both TV watching and eating habits, not to mention chipped nail polish – summed up in a nutshell. Ah yes – real life. It's pretty damned perfect, if you ask me. When did I get so lucky?

Of course, not everything is perfect. There's still the thought of Darla that's nagging away at my conscience, like toothache. And the small fact we've got a wedding to plan – and a baby to try and make. Okay, there's not a lot I can do about the first two tonight, but as for the third… Let's just say that necessity is the mother of invention, shall we?

"How about I give you a foot rub?" I raise my eyebrows and Kensi dumps the cereal unceremoniously onto the coffee table before patting the sofa invitingly. Excellent. So I'm sitting there, with Kensi's feet in my lap and pretty soon we both forget about the crap on the TV, because we're concentrating on much more important things. To be honest, they could probably drop the bomb outside and we probably wouldn't even notice. You have to get your priorities in life straight, after all. And you have to live in the moment, and savour each second you are together.

Sign #5 Your Partner Is the Right One – You Can Be Yourself With Them
You will not be appreciated or valued by a person who tries to change you or who cannot love you, flaws and all. So if you can be who you are when you are with them, they might just be the right one for you. This means they not only accepts the good in you, but also your weaknesses and faults. When you can be yourself, you will experience a sense of freedom. You will have confidence in knowing that they accept you just as you are.

I've had enough with these lists now – because all they ever do is just confirm that somehow I've found the only girl in the world for me, and that by some miracle, she thinks I'm the only guy for her. Ain't life grand? What more do we need to know – apart from the fact that we're crazy in love? Nothing else matters and that's just the way it is and the way it will always be.

Nothing in life is completely perfect, after all. Sometimes you have to look beneath the surface – or even underneath the ratty pyjamas. Which I do – and believe me it is worth it. And then some. Of course, Kensi's seen me at my worst too – like when I was lying out of the count in hospital, or being all pathetic when I got home – and by some miracle that didn't put her off. Mind you, I still sometimes can't quite believe we're planning to spend the rest of our lives together. What did I do to deserve to get so lucky? But I've come to believe that although life can be truly crappy at times, it can also be incredibly brilliant too. That's just the way things are and sometimes you just take what you are given, you grab it with both hands and hold it so damned close that nobody can ever take it away from you – because you've found the one person who makes this whole crazy world make sense. And because you don't even want to think about life without her, because she is your life, and that's all there is to it.

So, whether she is wearing a pair of ancient pyjamas in her twenties, or all dressed up to go out and celebrate our golden wedding anniversary in the years to come, it doesn't matter because Kensi will always be beautiful to me, not only because of who she is, but also for who she has made me. You see, my life would be nothing without her.

Of course, there are some things I am determined to change, namely this: I am going to get Darla to safety and in the process I am going to wipe the smug, self-satisfied smile of Jack Reynold's face if it's the last thing I do. So the next morning I go straight to Hetty, and I'm prepare to grovel unreservedly, if that's what I need to do. I'll personally valet her Jaguar every single weekend, if that's what it takes. I mean, I'm so desperate, I'll even agree to a haircut and shaving very other day if that is the price Hetty extracts. I'll do pretty much anything – I just need her help.

Only, as it turns out, I don't need to do any of the above. The minute I start to tell Hetty about Darla, her mouth goes into this hard, straight line. By the time I've finished telling the story, her mouth is pursed so tightly you can't even see her lips at all, and her eyes have this hard look about them. Not that she says a whole lot.

"I see." It's probably the only time I've ever seen Hetty so reticent, and I'm kind of scared she thinks I'm exaggerating.

"Hetty – I honestly believe this kid is being abused. I'm not just making this up as some way to get back at Jack." Although that would be a very welcome side-effect, of course.

She relaxes for a moment. In fact, she even goes so far as to pat me on the arm. "I would never to presume to think such a thing, Mr Deeks. I know you far too well to ever make such a mistake."

And it's the funniest thing, but I get the feeling Hetty is hinting at something. Only she can't know, because I've never told anybody about my childhood, except Kensi, of course. And she would never tell anyone, not even Hetty. And then I get this sinking feeling in my gut, because I remember Kensi telling me about when they did that scan in the hospital after I was shot in the leg, and how they saw all my old injuries. This shiver runs right down the whole length of my spine as I realise Hetty does indeed know. She knows all about it. Heck, with all her sources, Hetty probably knew even before she approached me with an offer I couldn't refuse – namely to come work with the OSP team.

See, the thing is that my past is my business. I don't want to share it with everyone, like I'm playing the sympathy card. People either like me for who I am, or they don't like me at all. It's as simple as that. And the other thing is that the past really is in the past. I've got way beyond it – I've built my own life. And it strikes me that maybe this is precisely why Hetty sought me out in the first place – because I'm my own man and I've shown that you can not only get over the crappiest of starts in life, but you can actually manage to build a pretty decent life for yourself. With the help of a good woman, of course. Kensi would kill me if I didn't say that.

"It is kind of personal," I admit, staring down at the floor. I do not want to see a look of sympathetic understanding in Hetty's eyes or, far worse – pity. I don't think I could cope with that. "For me and for Kensi." Because Jack hurt her emotionally, you see. It isn't just physical scars and broken bones that take a long time to heal. Sometimes it's the wounds that are invisible, the ones nobody knows about that cause the most pain. There are few things worse than being made to believe you are completely worthless – and you can quote me on that. Only do me a favour – make it anonymous, will you?

"Who could possible see a vulnerable child and not want to do everything in their power to help?" Hetty says crisply. "The day that happens is the day I finally give up all hope for the human race. You may be incorrigible at times, Mr Deeks, but you have excellent instincts. And your heart is in the right place."

Yeah, it's on my sleeve. I know that, and I don't actually care. "So you'll help me get some information?" If I sound like I'm pleading, that's because I am.

"I'll bloody well move heaven and earth to find out as much as I can, and that's a promise."

I love it when she swears, I really do. It's so incongruous, coming from this pristine person, with not a hair out of place. Nobody hearing Hetty use that tone of voice could have the slightest doubt that she means every single word. I scrawl down all the relevant information I have (which isn't a whole lot) and hand it across to her.

"I know I don't have to say this, but because it is so personal – to me and to Kensi – we'd really like it to stay that way. So we'd kind of appreciate it if you didn't say anything. To anyone." I hate the fact I have to ask like this, because it sounds like I don't trust Hetty, and the reverse is true. I'd trust her with my life- heck, I'd trust her with Kensi's life, because I know Hetty is always there, watching out for us, watching over us like some miniature guardian angel with a caustic tongue that never quite manages to hide the love just below the surface.

"And exactly when would I find the time?"

Yup, there it is again – Hetty's justly-famed dismissal of any hint of sentimentality. It's actually quite a relief.

"Which reminds me: I've been meaning to ask you something. Pink or lavender?" She cocks her head to one side and regards me gravely, just like a bright-eyed bird surveying a particularly juicy worm.

Okay, once again she's got me on the hop. Who can figure out how Hetty's devious little mind works? Not me, that's for sure. "Pink or lavender what?"

She favours me with a look of utter disdain. "The colours for your wedding, of course."

Of course. Forgive me for not being able to keep up. I must have forgotten to pick up the crib notes for this conversation on my way in to work this morning. Actually, it's kind of great that Hetty detests sentimentality almost as much as I do. It makes life one hell of a lot easier.

"Uh – neither?" It's not like I'm being given much of a choice after all, is it? Since when did weddings have to be colour coded? And what's wrong with dark blue, for crying out loud?

Hetty looks kind of smug. "That's exactly what I said to Julia. The poor woman really has no sense of occasion. And her colour choices suck. I'm sorry, but there's no other word for it."

You know, a small part of me would love to sit in on one of those planning meetings between Hetty and Kensi's mom, as they bicker over each tiny (and let's be honest) utterly inconsequential element of our wedding. A really small part. But most of all I'm just glad we asked them to help and then kind of delegated all the really boring stuff to them. I mean, just as long as we actually get married in the first place, and then there's a decent band and plenty to drink – then who really cares? No, don't answer that one, because I already know the answer: women. Women really think it matters what kind of invitation you send out, while men learn just to let them get on with it. As long as the guy turns up on the day, he's pretty much superfluous for all the rest.

"I knew I could rely on you, Hetty."

"I'm glad I've taught you that much, Mr Deeks. There is some hope for you after all."

Hetty Lang – the world's most unlikely fairy godmother. And God, I love her. I wouldn't change one single thing about her.

For a few weeks life goes slowly on. Having finally settled on a colour scheme, Julia and Hetty progress to arguing over each and every detail of the menu, although luckily we only hear about this after they finally reach some sort of mutually agreed compromise. I don't think the United Nations Peace Keeping Force was drafted in, but it was a close-run thing by all accounts. Kensi goes on various mysterious shopping trips, leaving all evidence behind at her mother's house. I don't know why she doesn't trust me not to peek. Okay, that's a lie. I know exactly why Kensi doesn't trust me – it's because she knows what I'm like. Of course I'd look. I don't think that's a big problem, but she does, for some reason. Anyway, the result is that all temptation is removed from the house.

Meanwhile, all of a sudden Nell really starts to show that she's pregnant. I guess she was hiding the evidence beneath those sort of smocky-type dresses she wears (or are they tunics? Don't ask me. I'm only a man. What do I know about fashion- apart from what Kensi tells me, of course?), because it seems like one minute she was normal shaped and the next minute she looks like she's got a football stuffed up her dress. It strikes me that we'd better get the wedding invitations out before it's time for Nell's shower. We don't want her going into labour just as we're about to say "I do".

And in the background, Hetty, Kensi and I are beavering away, finding out detail after tiny detail about Jack and Darla, building up a picture. It's frustrating, because while I don't want to leave her with him for a second longer, at the same time I know we have to have a water-tight case. There's no room for error here, none at all. This is a kid's life we're talking about. I just hope we're not too late, because the more I find out about Jack, the more I hate him.

Somehow, in between all of the above, there is the small matter of our normal caseload at work. So it's kind of a miracle that I find enough time to get myself a suit, which I leave over at Sam's. Hey, if it works for the bride, then it works for the groom, right? No, don't answer that, because we already established that the groom is kind of incidental to the whole affair. Wedding are really about women, right? And people say I'm a slow learner. Anyway, while I'm at Sam's house, I seize hold of my courage and ask him if he'll be my best man. That just seems right, somehow.

"Really?"

Now, this is when I know the big guy is moved, because he'd never normally say that. Sam reserves huge amounts of scorn for the very few occasions I utter that word. You'd think it was a habit with me, or something.

"Really." Okay, so maybe it is a habit? So what?

Sam shakes his head, like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. I don't know if I should be flattered or offended. Or even both. "I always thought you'd want Callen," he mumbles, after a long silence that has me worried.

Now, I know they are best buds and all that, but sometimes I wonder if standing in Callen's shadow for too long has left Sam so that he can't see who he really is or what a great guy he is. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but once you get to know him, you find out that Sam's an incredibly modest guy.

"Nothing against Callen, but I want you standing up there beside me, Sam."

It must be a trick of the light, because for a moment I almost think I can see tears in his eyes. Only Sam doesn't cry. It would be nonsense to even think about that. Just like it would be complete rubbish to suggest that I'm really moved by his emotions, so that the world kind of goes a bit blurry for a couple of moments. I mean, nothing could be further from the truth. Obviously. So we just settle for thumping each other on the upper arm, in a macho sort of way. Because we're big, tough guys – so of course we don't cry. Yeah, right.

"I'd be honoured, Deeks. Really honoured." Sam takes a deep breath in and holds it for a second before bursting into the biggest smile I've ever seen. I mean, I can see his tonsils and everything. And then he reaches forward, pulls me into this bear-hug, so that my feet are swinging off the ground and everything. Finally, he puts me down. "You don't know how much this means to me, Deeks."

Well actually, I do. I know how it feels to have your feeling validated and to realise that somebody thinks about you and, what's more actually cares about you. You see, there was a time when I first came to NCIS when things were kind of lousy. Sam in particular seemed to resent the fact that I'd been parachuted in and he made that pretty obvious. Callen was worse, though. The first op I went out on with the team, Callen was determined to show how he was the senior agent and I was just some jumped up detective from LAPD who didn't know squat. Never mind the fact that I was the only one who could actually get them into this nightclub. Anyway things went wrong, and it ended up with this girl having a gun pointed right at her head, right in the middle of the dance-floor. Now, I had a clear shot and Callen didn't. There's a protocol you follow – and that means you put personal feelings aside. You go for the least dangerous option every single time. It was my shot, because I had the safest angle. I was standing behind the shooter, while Callen was in front, and the girl's head was blocking most of the target. So there was no contest, no room for argument. It was my shot. I had a clear shot and a safe shot: Callen had neither.

Except that Callen couldn't accept that. He let his pride get in the way and he insisted on taking the shot. Now, there were a number of ways that situation could have gone down: he could have ended shooting the girl, or the hostage taker (which he did, by the grace of whatever deity watches over people like us), or even one of the people standing around and watched in horror. The most likely outcome though was that Callen could have shot me. Because I was standing right behind the girl, like I told you and the bullet went straight through the gunman's head and right out the back. Luckily I ducked, or I wouldn't be here today. I hit the deck so fast you wouldn't believe it.

Now granted all that was a long time ago and it all turned out fine, and I'll even accept that Callen didn't know just how good a shot I am – but back then it made me feel like Callen saw me as expendable. And I've never quite been able to forget the cold look I saw in his eyes that night. You want the truth? That evening I looked at Callen and I saw my father. There was that same fixed purpose about him, that element of "come what may", and it scared me. The memory still does. And it's completely irrational, I know it is. We've all moved on since then. Heck, I even walked out of the Mission after Callen and went over to Romania with him. I've pretty much stood by him every step of the way and now I'd trust him with anything and follow his lead implicitly. I might even love him, in a brotherly sort of way. A much older brother, of course, who kind of lucked-out in the hair department. But it's Sam I want at my side when I marry Kensi. He was the first one who made me feel like I really belonged, and you don't forget something like that.

"Come on, you don't have to hide it, Sam. I know how much you care."

The thing about Sam is that he kind of finds it hard to put what he's feeling into words. He shows you tough love instead. Like the time when I was shot in the convenience store, and Sam was beating himself up because he hadn't drummed it in to me about changing my routine. And the dumb thing was that it didn't actually matter– it wouldn't have made any difference at all, no matter how careful I was. Those guys deliberately made me a target as a way of getting to Kensi and they were going to get me, one way or another. Sometimes you just have to accept that you can take all the precautions that you want, but if it's going to happen, then it's going to happen. Anyway, there I was in the hospital, feeling like crap and Sam came in and started nagging me about being predictable – and he didn't fool me for a second. I could see why he was saying all these things and how much he was hurting - because I was hurt. Which I was, incidentally. It hurt like hell and it wasn't his fault or anything, but Sam just felt so damned bad, like he'd failed me or something. That was the day I really started to feel like I was part of the team. It was also the day I nearly died, but that's an old story, and one you already know. Still, twice in one day is pretty good going, even by my standards, isn't it?

"It's because of the baby, isn't it?" Sam's hand comes out and clamps down on my shoulder. "It's okay, Deeks. I know what it feels like. It took us three years, you know? And it just hurts so damned much." And then he squeezes so hard that it feels like my bones are going to crumble under the pressure, but that's okay. In fact it's good, because I can concentrate on the pain and stop thinking about how very much it hurts to know Nell and Callen can make a baby without even trying. And we've tried so hard…

"No, it's not about the baby. It's about you, Sam." I don't want to know how he's guessed about the baby, but maybe it's just because he's been there and he knows all about it. That makes me even more certain that I did the right thing in asking Sam to be my best man.

We don't say anything else, mainly because if we did we'd probably just both break down like a pair of girls who are standing outside a Justin Bieber concert and can't get in. Although some people might think that's a good thing, of course. But I know I chose the right man for the job. I couldn't think of a better person if I tried for a hundred years. And it helps to know that there's another man who knows how I feel. If there is anyone I can trust with our secret, then it is Sam, because he's been there and he understands. And he got through it, and what's more came out the other side, not only sane but with a baby to boot. There has to be a lesson in there somewhere, doesn't there?