After a rather long gap, another instalment – and a really nice long one. My apologies for my absence – you wouldn't believe the job I had rounding up all the plot bunnies. But they are all present and correct now, and so the story continues.

A huge and heartfelt "thank you" to everyone who has contacted me with good wishes – it is greatly appreciated.

Now, you can say what you like about buying American, but this car is the business. I've never driven an American car that even comes close to my Porsche. Not that it's actually my Porsche of course, not really. Not in the sense that I technically own it (more's the pity), but after all this time it certainly feels like I do, even if the documentation states that it's federal property. It's kind of become part of me, of who I am. In a funny sort of way, it even helps to define who I am. Having the Porsche kind of validates the fact I'm not the new guy on the team anymore. I'm not even the guy who was dumped on them from LAPD on an informal, long-term loan, engineered by the sheer deviousness of Hetty. Now, while certain people in the department were probably only too happy to see the back of me (although I'd like to point out that rumours of parties celebrating my departure were just that: rumours. I think. In fact I'm almost positive about that. Please don't disillusion me on that score, okay?) I don't think my superiors had much say in the matter when it came right down to it. You see, Hetty can be very persuasive. Very persuasive indeed. It's rumoured that Leonid Brezhnev is one of the few people who actually had the guts (or maybe it was stupidity?) to defy the small but powerful one. That was way back in November 1982. And it's pure co-incidence that he died a week later. Of course it is. You just keep believing that and remember not to hold any guinea pigs up by the tail in case their eyes drop out and then we'll all be happy, won't we?

Anyway, the Porsche is like a visible symbol that I'm part of a coherent whole, and even that I'm integral to the whole mix. Not that I'm kidding myself that I'm essential, or anything like that. If I was to leave, within days NCIS would be operating as smoothly as if I'd never been there - except in the memories. Sam was really cut up about that guy Dom for a long time, I know that. But life goes on – it has to. We're just players in a much bigger game and if we fall there are a dozen others just standing in the wings waiting to be called forward. I mean – this is OSP. This is the sort of gig people would give their eye-teeth to be a part of. Only that's kind of a bad metaphor isn't it? Given my experience in the hands of a guy who'd watched Marathon Man one time too many. Larry Olivier has a lot to answer for. But when it comes right down to things, I know that I got lucky, because for some reason Hetty picked me to join the team. She picked me almost out of thin air. Don't ask me why, or what she saw in me. Or even how she found out I existed in the first place. I'm just glad she flexed her Machiavellian muscles and brought me into the fold.

Whatever. Right now, for better or for worse, I'm a part of NCIS and for the first time in my life, I actually feel like I belong. So why am I holding back on signing those papers Hetty kindly provided me with? The ones that she's already signed, that make me a bona fide federal agent, not a cop, the ones that are stuffed way in the back of my desk drawer, almost hidden underneath my four-hole punch? (I managed to sneak that little beauty out of the stationery cupboard right underneath Callen's nose and he's just about going crazy trying to account for it in the audit. I figure I'll let him stew for another week or so. Maybe two. A month at the absolute outside. Maybe then he might start ordering blue pens again) It would be so easy to just sign on the dotted line and make everything official, but for some reason I just haven't got around to it. I'm never going to go back to LAPD now, I know that. Once you've worked in OSP, everything else in law enforcement is going to be dull and routine. I guess it all comes down to commitment. I ran from that for years, but things are different now. Maybe I've even grown up a bit? And maybe it's time to show my team that I'm as committed to them as they are to me? The more I think about things, the more of an idiot I feel for procrastinating for so long. Sometimes I can be a really slow learner. It's a good thing I've got Kensi to keep me straight. But it's not like there's any rush. The papers are safe in my desk and I've got more important things to worry about right now.

What with all the deep thinking and soul searching I'm doing, the drive passes pretty quickly and before I know it, I'm at the Mall and Darla is waiting for me, near where the carousel used to stand. It's been years since I was here and I can't believe they got rid of that ride. Man, I used to love that carousel. It was one of my favourite things in the whole of LA when I was growing up. Recently I've even been imagining taking my own kid there one day- we'd have ice creams and then we'd each chose a horse and we'd just ride and ride. We might have even let Kensi come to, if she was good. Well, that's another dream shattered. Nothing stays the same, I guess, not even the really cool things. Which is a damned shame. I wouldn't have minded having a ride on that carousel today, even if I am a grown man. Technically. As far as I'm concerned there are some things you never grow out of. Being an adult is actually pretty crap a lot of the time. Not that my own childhood was particularly wonderful, in fact a whole lot of it sucked big time. Maybe that's one reason I'm looking forward to having a kid – so I can see him or her doing all these really great things for the first time and try to remember what it was like to be so little and to think the world is just this fabulous place, filled with fun. Then again, it might just be because I am a big kid. Or maybe it's because I love Kensi so much and I just want us to make a baby out of love? There could be a hundred different reasons, but in the end I guess it doesn't really matter why you want a baby. You just do. That's just the way it is. There's nothing you can do or say that takes that longing away. Anyway, the carousel is gone and there's nothing I can do about that. I just hope that I can do something about the situation Darla's found herself in. Preferably before Kensi finds out where I am.

"You came!" There's relief written all over Darla's face when she sees me. "I mean, I wasn't sure that you would. Or even if you'd get the message. My Dad let it slip that you were an LA cop and I remembered your name - it's kind of unusual, isn't it? Anyway, I just took a chance and called them. Only they wouldn't put me through, so I just left a message. And I'm sorry, but I didn't know what else to do. You don't mind, do you?"

She's babbling, the words tumbling over one another in her haste to get them out, but I can sense the relief in her voice. And she's standing really close to me, and her hand comes out and grabs hold of my jacket sleeve, like she needs to touch me in order to convince herself that I'm real and not just some figment of her imagination. More than anything, I want to take her away to somewhere safe, but I can't- not yet. It could still be a trap and Jack could be waiting somewhere nearby, just ready to charge me with attempted abduction or some crap like that. Darla has to tell me she's in danger and actually come right out and ask for help.

"I got the message – so of course I came. And I don't mind at all." I want to put my arm around, only I can't.

"Your phone number's not listed. And neither's Kensi's. That was the only way I could think of getting in contact with you." Darla's apologising for using her wits? It strikes me that this kid is far too used to apologising for everything, starting with the fact she has the temerity to exist, and I can feel this slow burn of anger start to roil in my stomach. Then again, it might be that fish taco with hot sauce I had for lunch. I really wish Sam would chose something different when it's his turn to buy the food.

It's too public out here, we need to get inside the shop, just in case Jack's followed her. I wouldn't put anything past him, and that includes abusing his daughter – mentally and physically.

"How about we go get ourselves a coffee and we can talk properly? And maybe you'd like a sandwich?" If my hunch is right, Darla's run away and she's spent all her money on getting here. God knows when she last ate. And I don't even want to think about the possibility that she's been sleeping rough. I still have nightmares about the time Kensi spent living on streets and Darla isn't anywhere near as street-wise or tough as Kensi was. Kensi has her soft side, in fact she's full of tenderness. She just learnt to put up this protective shell around herself a long time ago, to stop herself getting hurt. But once I broke through it, all that love and compassion just came flooding out and made me feel like the luckiest guy on earth.

"That would be great!" Darla blurts out, confirming all my suspicions in an instant. Her grip on my arm tightens so that she's holding onto me like I'm a crucifix and she shoots me this look, full of trust and… and something else. Something that unsettles me. Darla is looking at me like I'm her own personal guardian angel, come down to earth especially to save her and my stomach clenches again. What if I'm wrong? What if I can't help her? Oh shit, what I have done, getting her hopes up?

I wait until we're sitting down in a booth right at the back before saying anything else. Darla is eating that sandwich like she hasn't a square meal for days, and I can't help noticing that her fingernails are gnawed almost raw. "So – why did you call me? Not that I mind – I'm just kind of curious."

She won't meet my eyes. "It was just something you said, back in the restaurant in Pendleton. I thought maybe I could trust you…" her voice tails off and she goes beet-red, pushing away the unfinished sandwich.

"You can. I really am a cop – see?"

I pull out my ID and show it to her discretely. And then I put the sandwich back in front of her. I'm glad one of us can eat, because right I feel like I'm going to be sick. Pendleton – ah yes, Pendleton. How can I ever forget that – the place where Jack popped up, just like the bad fairy at a christening. I remember exactly what I said to Darla in the restaurant: I told her to stay safe. It's the kind of thing most people wouldn't think twice about, but it's a message an abused kid is going to seize onto. Believe me on that.

"Darla – you can trust me. I want to help you. I'll do everything I can to help you. But I can only help if you tell me what's wrong." Does that sound like I'm begging? Actually, who cares if it does? Not me. All I care about right now is that I need Darla to talk about those demons and to tell me that she needs help.

That's when she starts crying, and the whole pitiful story comes out between sobs. Quiet, subdued gasps of emotion, because Darla has learnt her lesson well. She's learnt not to make a noise – because she knows the consequences if someone should hear her. Scream quietly, so the neighbours don't hear. And the pitiful thing is that despite her efforts to choke back the tears, Darla's whole body shakes with the emotions that are pulling her to pieces before my eyes. It's such a familiar story that it makes my heart ache, not just for Darla, but for all the unloved kids out there. It even aches a bit for the kid I once was, and the man I've become: the man who can't understand why two people who want a baby so desperately can't seem to manage to have one. Jack practised the twin dark arts of parental abuse: physical and mental cruelty. He screwed up Kensi, made her lose faith in herself and now he's screwing up his daughter. He should never have had a child. I wouldn't give him a goldfish to look after. I'm not a father, no I'm just the guy who has to sit in a coffee shop and listen as Darla tells me how he systematically destroyed her from the inside out, pulling apart all her fragile self-esteem and trampling it underfoot.

"I just couldn't take it any longer, you know?" She's stopped sobbing now, but the tears are still rolling down her face. Darla doesn't even bother to wipe them away and that gets to me. It's like tears have become such an integral part of her life that she doesn't even notice she's weeping any more.

Oh yes, I know. I know all about it. Only I got out and I was able to build a new life. I'm just glad that Darla has also managed to get out before she had to resort to shooting her father. Now, I'll be honest and say that there's a part of me thinks putting Jack out of his miserable existence wouldn't have been such a bad thing, but most of me remembers how absolutely crappy things were when I did just that, and how I felt like I was the worst kid on the planet. I'm glad Darla doesn't have to go through all that. At least she is spared that.

"You don't have to," I say, trying my best to sound reassuring. I don't think my voice wobbles, but I wouldn't put money on it.

"I can't go back." There is this look of utter terror on her face and it makes me want to cry right along with her, because no kid should ever have to feel like this. Darla should be going round the mall with her friends, spending her allowance on make-up and magazines and eyeing up the cute boys, not sitting here with me, pleading for help. "I just can't. I'll kill myself if you make me go back."

Oh yes, teens can be melodramatic – but if you were sitting in my seat, and you saw Darla's face and heard the emptiness in her voice, then I bet you would believe her too. She's like some wild animal that's been trapped: wide-eyed and trembling with palpable fear. I'm willing to bet that she's maybe even tried some self-harm, just to try to deaden the pain a little bit. Both times I've met her, Darla's been wearing long-sleeved tops, despite the weather. I'd put good money on the probability that her forearms are criss-crossed with an interweaving of fine scars. Sometimes when you hurt so much inside only physical pain can numb the agony and distract you from the tiger that is gnawing away in your stomach, tearing you apart from the inside out.

"Nobody is going to make you do anything that you don't want to. And you're not going back to that bastard. Not ever. I swear." I've never been so certain of anything in my life. "You're safe now."

"Really?" She looks she doesn't quite dare to believe that the nightmare is going to end.

"Really." I take hold of both of her hands and look her straight in the eyes. "You matter, Darla. You deserve to be safe and to have the chance to live a great life. It's not your fault, no matter what your Dad says. It's nothing you did or didn't do, and it's nothing you said that makes him act that way." I'd love to tell Darla that it's not her problem that Jack is a complete wanker, but even I know when to keep my mouth shut.

"I try to tell myself that, but…" her voice wobbles. "It's hard – you know."

"I know." And I do, because I was just like Darla. Only I didn't have half her courage. I only stopped my own cycle of abuse because it was shoot or be shot. Ray had drummed that into me: always shoot first. It was sheer self-preservation. Well, technically it was self-defense. That's what the court said anyway, and I wasn't about to argue with them, seeing as how I'd got a get-out-of-jail-free card, unlike my father. Nope, Gordon John Brandel's luck had finally run out and he was handed the card that says "Go to jail. Go directly to jail." And that was the day everything changed.

Darla's gaze is steady."He said nobody would believe me." Her voice is the ghost of a sound, like she confessing a sin.

That is the oldest and the dirtiest trick in the book. How many times did I hear that one? Just about every day.

"I believe you. And I want to help you. If you'll let me. You don't have to stay with him. Nobody is going to make you stay with him – not any more. There are places you can go, and people who will help you. Starting with me."

You know, sometimes, when I hear Callen talk about his foster homes, and how tough it was, it makes me wonder. For him, they were purgatory. For me the foster system was salvation. I can remember just feeling so darned safe, for the first time in my life. Actually being able to go to sleep at night, rather than lying awake and listening for raised voices or the footsteps that would stop outside my door. It was incredible. I grew a whole inch in the first month I was in care – that's the difference it made to me. Still, it takes all sorts, I suppose. The foster system gave me sanctuary. I'm hoping it can give Darla the same chance.

Darla blinks in surprise, but I think that deep down, she knew I would help. That was why she called me, because she could recognise a fellow traveller, one who had been right up to the jaws of hell, but who had escaped. "So you'll really help me?" There is still that note of hesitation, almost as if she is too scared to even dream anymore. That man - he's even made her feel guilty for dreaming. How could he destroy the bright hope of a young life? Simple - because he could. Because it made Jack feel big and powerful to dominate his daughter. Only she escaped. I offered Darla a chance and she was brave enough to grab it with both hands. Well, I'm not about to let her down. No way.

"I'll do everything I can. And you are never going back there – okay? It's just not going to happen. I'll give you my cell number, and any time you need me – you just call and I'll be there. Day or night. I promise."

"I believe you." Finally, she smiles, and it's like seeing a different kid – one who has just realised that there is a whole big world out there, just waiting for her, because all her horizons have just increased to encompass infinity. You see, we all need somebody to believe in, and who will believe in us. It's what makes life worth living.

And talking of that, we're going to have to make a move soon, or my own life definitely won't be worth living. Kensi will make sure of that. I noticed a Victoria's Secret shop in the mall on my way in and I'm kind of wondering if I should make a quick stop there to provide myself with an insurance policy. Only that would be kind of weird for Darla, and the poor kid is jumpy enough already, without her getting the wrong idea and thinking I'm some sort of pervert. Anyway, I'm just about to suggest we get going, when I check my phone, which has been on silent. There are half a dozen missed calls from Kensi, which isn't exactly a surprise, and a text from Sam. It is succinct and to the point:

"Beware."

That's not good. That means one thing, and one thing only: Kensi is on the warpath. Hurricane Kensi is about to land. I have a very healthy fear of her at the best of times, but especially when she is mad. I don't want to end up like Callen, after all. I like my body just the way it is, with everything in its proper place. Kensi does too, of course – only when she's mad she can kind of lose control, as Callen found out. Maybe I could remind her that we're still trying for that elusive baby? No, on second thoughts, it's probably best not to say anything at all and just grovel copiously. If nothing else, it will show Darla what a strong, confident woman can achieve: namely bringing a grown man to his knees with just a flicker of her eyes. Hey - she needs a strong female role model, and who better than Kensi?

"Is something wrong?" Again there is that look of abject terror on Darla's face.

Either I need to practice my poker face or this kid is acutely sensitive to things. Or possibly both. She's probably used to being blamed for anything that goes wrong, like a traffic light taking too long to turn green, or the fact that it's raining. "Everything's fine," I say, lying through my teeth with a breezy confidence I don't feel. As we leave the coffee shop, I decided that as I've been well and truly rumbled, there's no point in even bothering to buy the coffee I promised my team mates. Anyway, it would be cold by the time we get to the Mission.

All in all, I'm feeling pretty good about things right now, kind of like I'm a medieval knight on a white charger, swooping in to save a damsel in distress. It's probably got something to do with the looks Darla keeps shooting me when she thinks I'm not looking, her eyes shining with unadulterated hero-worship. I could kind of get used to this… Anyway, like I said, things seem pretty good right now. It's kind of cool to make a difference, to set wrongs right without actually having to shoot someone in the process. Not that I'd mind shooting Jack. Quite the reverse. It would be a positive pleasure and a service to humanity.

Of course, feeling good about myself was my big mistake. Pride going before a fall and all that. I really must make more of an effort and stop thinking things without actually taking the time to think them through properly. if you get my drift. Whenever I think without thinking, life turns right around and bites me on the butt. And right now, I've got the feeling that might actually happen for real, because when we get to the car who should be standing waiting for us, but Kensi and Monty? Yippeee. Let joy be unrestrained. Even from a distance it's obvious from the way she is standing (hands on hips and pissed expression, if you absolutely have to know) that Kensi is in a foul mood. Added to that is the fact that my dog isn't speaking to me at the moment, on account of the fact I de-fleaed him last night, and then cut his claws for good measure. It's hard to say which one of them looks more disgusted at me.

"Coffee, Deeks? Really?" It would be an understatement to say that Kensi isn't too impressed with my little white lie, but I'm guessing you can picture the look on her face. Let's put it this way: if I actually had bought us coffee, then the milk would have turned sour in an instant.

I hate it when people turn my little speech habit against me. Especially when it's imbued with sarcasm. Plus a Medusa glare.

"I asked him to meet me." Darla is back to being jumpy all over again, and that kind of pisses me off. Listen – I'm being the good guy here, and it's bringing back a whole heap of memories that I normally stick away in one of the darkest recesses of my mind, fenced around with razor wire and guarded by man-eating tigers, so I'm not really in a mood for recriminations right now. Of course, it's not like I have a whole lot of choice in the matter. Not if Kensi has anything to do with it. Unless, of course, I can head her off at the pass? Heck, it's worth a try, isn't it? Yup, that's desperation you hear in my voice. Well spotted.

"And now we're going back to the Mission to pick up the paperwork before we get Darla settled." You know, I'm quite proud of that little speech – I'm being calm and factual; I'm letting Kensi know that everything is okay, and I'm doing all that in one sentence. Pretty good, eh? In an ideal world, Kensi would smile, maybe give me a hug and say she was proud of me and… and who am I kidding? You know she's mad, and I know she's mad and Kensi thinks she's got every right to be mad, so it doesn't actually matter what I say. I don't know why I bother sometimes.

Kensi takes a step forward, and Darla sensibly takes one backward. I could take lessons from that kid. Maybe I should? "You could have told me."

Now, Kensi has a point. A very good point, actually, only I'm not going to admit that. "I wasn't sure how things were going to work out."

"Exactly," And now Kensi is so close our noses are almost touching. "It could have been a trap, Marty."

"But it wasn't." Why am I protesting? She's right. Again.

"Only I didn't know that, did I? No – because you've not been answering your calls and I've been worrying myself stupid that something's happened to you. Sometime you make me so mad. Even Monty's got more sense that you."

I look at my dog, who gives me a nonchalant look and then begins to lick his balls in leisurely fashion. I'd get hell if I did that, but somehow he manages to get away with it. It's probably best to change the subject. "You got Eric to track my cell phone, didn't you?"

"Damn right I did." And then she leans in just that little bit further and kisses me on the lips. It's kind of a chaste kiss, given we're in a public parking lot and in the presence of a teen, but it's enough to let me know I'm forgiven. "Just don't do it again, okay? Because you can never get away from me. Never. Remember that."

And then Kensi whacks me on the butt, just to drive the point home, before going over to Darla and links her arm through hers. "Come on. What are you waiting for? Victory?"

They snigger at this witticism, and for the first time Darla seems like a normal kid. I've got a feeling things might turn out alright. For me and for Darla. But just to be on the safe side, I'll buy Monty some liver on the way home, because he's still giving me beady looks. And it looks like I'm going to need some male solidarity, because Kensi and Darla are hitting it off big time. They're chatting like they've been BFFs and I'm feeling kind of surplus to requirements. Sic transit Gloria mundi, as they used to say. Ah, how quickly my halo has slipped. I'm right back down lying in the gutter – but at least I have a great view of the stars from here.

"You want to ride with me?" Kensi offers and Darla hesitates, clearly torn. Great, that means I'm going to be left with Monty, who gives me another disgruntled look, followed by a silent belch that manages to shake his whole body so hard that his front paws lift clear off the ground. Excellent. No doubt he's working up to some major farting too. Time to invest in some charcoal biscuits, I think.

Darla rubs the toe of her sneakers along the ground. "If you don't mind, I'd kind of like to ride with Deeks." Her head is down and she doesn't look at either of us.

Yeah well, I do have a cool car. I mean, what kid wouldn't want to ride in my Porsche?

Scrub that last sentence. It makes me sound like the type of creepy guy that hangs around schools, doesn't it? What I mean is that I still get a huge kick every time I start the engine and technically I'm an adult, even if Kensi says I'm more like a kid in a man's body. So, how can I blame Darla, who actually IS a child, for wanting to go in the Porsche?

Then again, maybe Darla is just taking the safe option, because she's heard about Kensi's driving? Really, there are times when I feel we should put out an alert to other road users. And while Sam has one of the strongest stomachs I've ever come across, he point-blank refuses to go in any car that Kensi is driving. He doesn't let me drive when we're together either, but that's because he's kind of insecure about things like another guy driving. I think it offends his masculinity. Me – I've learnt to roll with things. Most of the time. I still don't let Kensi drive home after we've been to the produce market, mainly because it's kind of cool to have all the eggs still safely inside their shells, rather than dripping everywhere. Monty disagrees, being kind of partial to raw egg, but he's only a dog, so what does he know? Yeah, so I let him lick up the eggy mess. I even helped him get into the trunk, if you really want to know.

Anyway, it doesn't really matter why Darla prefers to ride with me, does it? And I don't much care either way – all that matters is that Darla trusts me. And that kind of makes me feel good. Trust. Such a little word. So easy so say and so very hard to put into practice. I should know. I mean, apart from the whole "crappy childhood" bit. Most people take a while to trust someone – and boy did I find that out when I went to work at NCIS. There was Callen, refusing to let me take a clear shot in the nightclub on my very first outing with the team – and then damn near shooting me and the hostage in the process. Course, he came round pretty quickly when I saved his ass a day later. It took a whole lot longer with Sam.

Scrub that. It took years with Sam. It didn't matter what I said, or what I did – Sam just had a problem with me. It seemed like he had a problem with everything about me, starting with my hair. Now, personally I put that down to plain old jealousy, seeing as how Sam is what the Brits would call "as bald as a coot." And that isn't a compliment. I just don't get what is so great about having this big old pointy chrome-dome on display, one that's so shiny you can see your reflection in it, but I don't go on about it, do I? Well not in front of Sam at any rate. I'm not that stupid. Anyway, we got it worked out in the end, but there were a whole lot of times when it was pretty crappy. It's not a whole lot of fun knowing that the guy who is supposed to have your back doesn't trust you. In fact, it makes you start to mistrust him – and on it goes, winding in on itself, over and over again, like a distorted Mobius strip. Only that's in the past. That was then and this is now and Sam and I – we're good. I'd trust him with my life. And I kind of think that Darla has trusted me with hers.

You want to know the thing I'm most proud of? It's simple – I've never let my team down. Whether or not they knew it or even believed it, I've always been there for them, all the way. And I'm going to make sure that Darla knows I'm on her side, always and with no questions asked.

"Own up. You told her, didn't you?"

It's late at night, because it took a while to get Darla settled. It turned out that Hetty just happened to be on first name terms with the head of Child Services, and together they got the kid into this really nice place - a home, not a hostel. She looked happy when we left, standing there on the porch, with her foster Mom and Dad at her side, like they were already supporting her. So it was a pretty great day and it's been an amazing evening too. Put it this way, I'm sprawled across the bed, still in that pleasant haze you get after a meaningful encounter. I could stay like this for ages, only Kensi has other ideas. I fact, she's bounced to her knees and is prodding me just underneath the ribs.

"Told who what?" That's not particularly grammatical, but then I'm not entirely concentrating, mainly because Kensi is naked and my mind is elsewhere.

"Talk to my face, not my breasts." This instruction is accompanied by a prod that almost goes right through the intercostal space. It seems safest to drag my gaze upwards.

"Who did I tell? And what did I tell them?" There are times when resistance is futile. One of those times is definitely when you're in bed with a hot girl. I learnt that one the hard way.

"You told Darla about my driving, didn't you? And it's not that bad."

It goes without saying that I am not going to answer that second statement. Mainly because Kensi's hand has moved southwards and I'm kind of partial to keeping my gear in working order.

"I didn't say a word. Scout's honour."

"You weren't a Scout. No way."

"Way." I snap my fingers up into a salute.

Kensi looks at me through narrowed eyes. "Go on them – recite the Scout Oath.

I struggle up into a sitting position, because it just feel plain weird to say this lying down, rather than standing to attention. Old habits die hard. of course, a part of me is standing to attention, but you'd already guessed that, hadn't you?

"On my honour I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country
And to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times
To keep myself physically strong,
Mentally awake and morally straight."

It's funny how some things stay with you – like that promise and the memories of all those Scout meetings. I started going along when I went into the foster system – they thought it would be good for me. And it was. It gave me a sense of belonging and it opened up a whole new world of opportunities.

"Wrong!" There's a certain look of triumph in Kensi's eyes – along with something else I can't quite put my finger on. That might be because she's pushed me back down so that I'm lying flat on my back, with my arms pinned above my head and she's sitting right on my groin. Putty in her hands, that's what I am. God, my life is so great sometimes.

Come on. That was perfect. "No way!"

"Way!" Kensi smirks. There's no other word for it.

I'm not letting this go down without a fight. And I can fight dirty. "I was word perfect." Wasn't I?

"Did I say you weren't?" Kensi put on a 'deep thinking' look. "Nope, don't think I did. But you still failed. And failed big time. They might even make you send your badges back."

Like that's going to happen. I worked damned hard for those badges. Although they can have the scarf back, if they really want. It never really worked for me. I tried putting it on Monty as a bandana one time, but it wasn't his bag. It wasn't his colour either, come to that. "Exactly how did I fail?" Come on, I had to ask. You would have asked too – wouldn't you?

"Well, I can go along with all that stuff about helping people, and being physically strong – but morally straight?" For good measure, or maybe just to drive the point home, Kensi wiggles her hips provocatively and I respond automatically. Just like she knew I would. So I'm predictable? So what.

"You've got a point." I really am going to have to make an honest woman of her. if nothing else, I owe it to the Boy Scouts.

"I always do."

Sometimes you have to know when to accept defeat gracefully. This is definitely one of those moments and I'm afraid there is nothing else for it but to lie back and let Kensi have her wicked way with me. Again. It's a hard life. And I wouldn't change it for anything.

Whew! Told you that was a long instalment. So, that's Darla safe and Kensi and Deeks safely in bed once again. All is right with the world. Now, all they have to do is finalise those wedding preparations, and with the combination of Hetty and Kensi's mom, what can possible go wrong?

Well, apart from slushy plot bunny wanting to be a bridesbunny, not a single thing. Because organising a wedding is totally relaxing and brings people together, doesn't it? And that's why evil plot bunny is sniggering away.