A/N: This wonderful story idea was suggested by mashmaiden.
His hands tremble as he cups them and brings a handful of water to his face. Some of it spills down his chin, running down his neck to soak the neckline of his shirt.
Pulling in a shaky breath, Deeks finally gathers the courage to face his reflection in the mirror. There's a cut under his right eye and his bottom lip is split and swollen. His nose had finally stopped bleeding a few minutes ago; it hurts like hell, but he doesn't think it's broken. He'll probably have black eyes though.
The thought makes him shudder again. Black eyes and near broken noses aren't a new experience. Little Marty Deeks had his fair share. So had his mom. Swallowing harshly against a wave of nausea, he turns the water back on and grabs a relatively clean washcloth from the edge of the sink.
God, this was a terrible idea. When Bates had suggested this undercover job, flattering him with talk about how Deeks was perfect for the job, he should have known better. He should have said no. But he'd been eager to prove himself and get far away from his last partner.
That was when he'd created Max Gentry. At first it had been hard pretending to be someone else, acting out with anger and violence. And then all too soon, it had become remarkably easy.
Tonight it had all come to a head and he'd been forced to showcase that violence or risk being killed. He'd chosen violence, convincing himself that it was for the sake of his cover. There were bigger things at play and if his cover was blown, then the whole operation was too.
That's what he'd told himself at least right before he'd beat the crap out of a guy who apparently didn't buy his act.
He'd felt the man's nose crunch beneath his fist and been satisfied by the shocked look on his face. Now the thought made him sick. His dad had always looked pleased with himself when he hurt him or his mom.
He'd promised himself, promised his mom that he would never become that. Is there something inherent in him that longs for this kind of violence and pain or had he learned it from his father?
Looking in the mirror again, he starts wiping dried blood off his chin. If he looks hard enough, he can see a bit of his dad in his eyes. Maybe it's his imagination, but he thinks look harsher than he had the night before.
He pulls in a short breath and blows it back out immediately as he continues to stare at the darkening bruises. "I'm not like him," he promises himself, knowing that tomorrow he'll likely doing the same thing all over again.
Throwing the washcloth in the sink, he smacks off the bathroom light so he doesn't have to face his reflection anymore. As he walks to through the door, he takes another deep breath, and wills himself back into the mind of Max Gentry.
With each step, he feels a little piece of Marty Deeks chip away.