Title: Fragmented
By: Jessica
Pairing: Kensi/Deeks
Rating: T
Timeline: Post 4x24, Descent. Possible spoilers for 5x01, Ascension.
Summary: Maybe one day, he'll finally be whole again.

A/N: This was a ROUGH story to write. I take Deeks to a few rather dark places in this, and I should probably warn that some bits may be a bit difficult to read at times. This is not like anything I've written before. Though, it's similar to APTB in that it's told in a series of flashbacks intermingled with present time events. It's a story that I have been putting together since May, since just after the finale aired, and finally, it is done. It's a story that, over the past three months, has become very important to me, considering the time and energy and frustration I have put into it. I know the word count is mildly daunting, lol, and for that I apologize. That said, I would LOVE to know what you guys think when you read.

A/N 2: To Angèle, for pushing me through even after a not-so-accidental file deletion. And to Shawn, for a level of faith entirely undeserved. Thanks for sticking with me.

The pain never really goes away.

Sometimes it fades to a dull roar, but that's usually only when he falters, those rough nights when he doubles up on the painkillers. Most nights, he tries to fight it; most nights, he tries to be strong because the line between relief and addiction is a very fine line indeed.

He can't control most things in his life right now but he can at least control that.

Tonight, though, the pain refuses to be silenced. It radiates from deep within his jaw, a constant throbbing that echoes the very beat of his heart. If it were only that, he thinks he might be able to handle it. But it's not just his jaw, not just his teeth that ache. Outwardly, he's healed – the bruises are gone, the cuts have scarred over. But the phantom pain remains; sharp, persistent, sometimes debilitating.

They say time heals all wounds. But to Marty Deeks, time is merely the blade that cuts him deeper with every passing day, and no matter how well he heals up in the end, he knows he'll never be the same person he was before.

It's been six weeks since he woke up in the hospital, no memory of how he'd gotten there. That's a chunk of time he's sure he'll never get back; considering how vividly he remembers everything that had led up to it, though, Deeks isn't sure he'd want it back. The last thing he remembers is the blistering agony of another bullet tearing through his chest, leaving him gasping for air but unable to fill his lungs. He remembers the cold grip of fear as he'd realized that he was probably living his final moments.

He's played with fire too many times before without being burned. He'd always known eventually his luck would run out. He'd never imagined he'd go out like this, though. Bound down and unable to fight back; unable to do anything at all except feel his energy, his strength, his very life seep out of him along with his blood.

In the end, he supposes he was lucky. He doesn't know why he thinks that because he's never really been the optimistic one (except on the surface, but nobody really ever cared enough to push beyond that anyway) and the nightmares do their best to remind him just how very unlucky he'd been, but at the end of it all, he can't help but think that, instead of just his teeth, that drill could have just as easily been forced through his palate, puncturing God only knows what else. Deeks supposes he should be grateful that eventually he'll be good as new. And there's enough dark humor still alive somewhere deep inside of him for him to remember that, hey, he'd been meaning to make a dentist appointment for quite some time now.

Beyond everything, he's still here. He's still fighting this endless, sometimes seemingly pointless fight when, after all, he could have easily surrendered.

He could have let go.

He could have left this life behind.

And God, if that isn't a utopia he's pondered once or twice in his life.

More than that, these days. Because some nights, he wakes up screaming.

He can't tell if it's from the pain or the nightmares.

Then again, most of the time, it's both.

In the past seven nights, he reckons he's slept a grand total of seven hours. Ten minutes here, ten there, maybe twenty if he's really lucky. He'd kill for the luxury of even just a full hour, but that's something he's long given up on. If it's not the nightmares waking him, it's the pain, sharp and staggering, enough to bring him to his knees were he not already on his back.

Tonight, the combination of exhaustion and pain weighs him down far too much; it's too much to bear.

He watches helplessly as the inner sanctum of his bedroom seems to shift around him, suddenly reminding him of nothing but the tiny torture chamber in which he'd nearly lost his life; the twisting sheets of his bed becoming the ties that had bound him to that chair, leaving him powerless to defend himself. As his breathing quickens, his overactive imagination and his memory begin to turn on him, and suddenly, he's no longer sure he's alone in his bedroom.

It's not the first time this has happened, but that doesn't mean he's any more prepared for it. He feels his stomach clench tightly, acid beginning to prickle at the back of his throat; the nausea is almost overpowering, but he hasn't eaten anything substantial in days (not since the last time Hetty stopped by, refusing to bid him adieu until he did relent and eat). Every nerve in his body reacts as his bedroom, the one place he should feel safest, becomes anything but safe.

He tries to stop the tricks his mind is starting to play on him, but it's no use. He tries counting, tries reciting things silently in his head, but despite all of that, despite every little breathing exercise he attempts in order to hold onto what little bit of control he has left, Deeks can't stop the rush of adrenaline from storming the gates to the very heart of him. Within moments, he's dizzy, his heart pounding furiously against his ribcage, almost as if trying to escape. It's trapped, imprisoned just as he had been.

Just as he is.

With that realization, the panic storms him quickly, overwhelming him until he's completely unable to catch his breath, no matter how desperately he gasps for air. He's merely lying in bed, tossing back and forth and yet he feels as if he's tried to run a marathon. He feels crushed; it's as if the ocean, his oldest and most loyal friend, has abruptly turned on him, stripping his board away and pulling him under, wave after wave after wave; he can't surface.

It's exactly like drowning.

The shadows begin to taunt him as he struggles, their cruel laughter echoing in his ears. But after a moment, Deeks realizes it's not the shadows at all – it's the memory of Sidorov, a dark, horrific cackle that had haunted him as his body had begun to surrender, succumbing to the agony. It's the sound that, even weeks after it all had ended, still wraps its cold tendrils around him, chilling him deep to the bone. Despite the sweat that covers his body, he begins to shiver, his vision clouding before him and suddenly, it's as if the walls begin to close in on him, threatening to trap him forever.

It's then that his mind clears, filling with only one desperate thought: he has to get out.

It doesn't matter that it's half past three in the morning; it doesn't matter that a cold drizzle is falling from the sky, low clouds blocking out any light from the moon. None of it matters; nothing matters but running. Getting out. Being free.

As he wrenches himself from the confining mass of bedsheets, all Deeks needs is to run. Doesn't matter where; doesn't matter how far.

Just run.

It's exactly what he does. Before he even really processes it all, he's escaping into the night, cold rain seeping deep into his soul as his feet pound furiously into the pavement, carrying him farther and farther from his haunted reality.

It's not enough, though. No matter how fast, no matter how far, it's not enough to escape the demons.

They always catch up to him and tonight is no exception.

It starts with a low, dull ache in his jaw. At first, Deeks ignores it and presses on, but the intensity refuses to be ignored. It only blossoms and grows until soon, every single footfall sends the agony tearing through his body like a bolt of lightning, concentrating within the core of every tooth. His eyes begin to water, but Deeks just pushes harder, running faster, his pace nothing less than punishing. His chest aches with the angry beat of his heart; his lungs burn with every harsh breath of cold oxygen.

He pushes beyond his furthest limits.

And then, his body betrays him.

He doesn't know where he is when he ends up on his knees in the grass, his empty stomach lurching and the piercing thud of his heartbeat reverberating through every single bone in his body. He sees stars as his forehead meets the damp grass, his body shaking in the wake of his exertion.

He's not sure how long he lays there; all he is certain of is the thought that briefly crosses his mind: you're going to die here.

At some point, he'd managed to pull himself from the grass and painstakingly stumble his way home – it's all a blur in his head, though. He doesn't remember finding the strength to stand; doesn't remember retracing his winding path through the darkened streets of Los Angeles. There's just one thing on his mind – one dark, overpowering, all-consuming need. It had conquered him before, but now, the pain is what drives him. It's too much to bear, and he's simply not strong enough for this.

He's not strong enough for this to become his life, the tick of each minute on what's left of the clock of life illustrated with nothing but pain, nothing but defeat.

He doesn't know how long he can keep this up; doesn't know how long he can keep fighting. He's cracking after mere weeks; can he live like this for ten, twenty more years, even longer?

Just the thought leaves him shuddering, certain but of one thing.

He has to stop it.

Somewhere in the haze, though, the line between stopping the pain and stopping…everything had become invariably blurred. He just wants it to end – no matter what it takes. He's tired of the doctors, tired of the pain, tired of the pity texts and calls from coworkers (he's not sure he's ever really been able to call many of them friends). He's just…tired. He wants to break down and scream, but he doubts he could even find the strength for that.

At this point, he barely even has the strength to wrap his fingers around the small vial of painkillers.

It's there on top of his dresser, the tiny plastic vial that had fueled his struggle home that night. It glares at him, almost taunting him, the imagined laughter growing louder and louder the longer Deeks stares at it. Then, finally, with the pulsing thud of his heartbeat echoing in his ears, he fights his way out of bed, not bothering to turn on the lights – at least in the shadows, he doesn't have to face himself.

Slowly, he crosses the darkened room, every step bringing more pain than the last. He's trembling by the time he reaches the dresser, and one hand grips the edge with a white-knuckled grasp while the fingers of his other hand close around the orange bottle. Acid burns the back of his throat; he swallows hard, but even that causes him an immense amount of pain.

Every few days, Deeks entertains the idea of weaning himself completely off the painkillers.

And every time he tries, he ends up exactly like this. The agony comes back to him with a vengeance. Tonight, it's as bad as it'd been his first night home, and he finds himself weighed down by the agony, by the memories of his failed escape, by the loneliness, by everything.

The weakness gets the best of him then and he slowly drops to the floor. Shaking the vial in his hands, he hears the clatter of tablets against the hard plastic – the bottle holds more than it should, because apparently he's acquired his old partner's stubborn streak. If he were to defeat the pain on his own, he'd be victorious; if he has to turn to drugs, then it makes him weak. Irrational though he knows it is, he can't shake it.

Turning his gaze downward, he slowly reads the words on the label, the letters seemingly swimming before his very eyes. Take one or two tablets every four to six hours as needed for pain.

One, two; four, six…such arbitrary numbers that don't really mean a thing to him because the pain never really fades away. As needed…what a joke that is. Deeks almost laughs as he pops the top open with shaking hands, emptying the entire vial into his palm. They're such small, simple, innocuous tablets, but Deeks stares at them tonight as if they hold all the answers he's been searching for; all the answers that have eluded him.

Some nights, he can't help but think about just how easy it would be. Just down the whole bottle, close his eyes, drift peacefully away during the night. No more pain, no more suffering. No more wishing they'd just killed him that day.

(They'd killed his spirit; why not end the rest of him as well?)

He closes his eyes, shivering as a cold sweat breaks upon his brow. Slowly, Deeks closes his fingers around the tiny tablets, feeling each one in the palm of his hand, against his skin before letting them fall back into the bottle. Would it be painful, he wonders.

Couldn't be more painful than living.

And then, he sees her.

They're in the boatshed; she's in front of him, crimson top, wavy hair, dark mismatched eyes just a little mistier than he's ever seen them before. And then, Deeks hears her plea, almost as if she's beside him now, whispering in his ear.

Promise me you'll never do that…get yourself killed.

But then he sees her dressed in black, his partner, his Kensi, her dark eyes distant and a frown set so deeply into her beautiful face that he's not sure she'll ever smile again.

No.

With all the strength he can muster, he hurls the amber vial at the far wall, a cry wrenched from deep in his soul drowning out the satisfying thud of impact. He reaches up, raking his hands roughly through his sweat-dampened hair. He can't get that image of her out of his mind and that's the impetus he needs to pull himself to his feet. The bottle of pills remains on the floor several feet away, and Deeks leaves them there as he stumbles his way back to his bed, collapsing unceremoniously back to the mattress.

As he presses his head against the pillow, his eyes water as he realizes just how exhausted he is – God, he's utterly drained.

But he's no fool; he knows he won't be finding much sleep tonight.

The pain tonight is worse than it has been in weeks.

But tonight, Marty Deeks will suffer.

(He deserves to suffer, for letting such dark thoughts ensnare his mind.)

Daylight breaks before he finally falls into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning, struggling against the demons that plague him.

(His defenses, yet again, aren't strong enough to keep them out.)

Icy fear grips his stomach as he hears the shatter of glass; five year old Marty doesn't have to look up to know exactly what's happened. It's late afternoon, the sun high in the sky, summer heat scorching down upon them. Fun quickly shifts to fear so paralyzing that Marty can't even release his grip on his baseball bat as he and his best friend rush into the house. It finally falls with a sharp thud to the hardwood floor of the den as both boys take in the sight in front of them – the fragmented shards of what had once been the window litter the floor, shimmering in the sunlight.

They rush to clean it all up, to hide the damage before it's too late, but even at the age of five, Marty knows that's entirely impossible. He's not the only one who knows what's at stake – as the other boy's fingers close around the baseball in the midst of the glass, he turns to Marty, willing to take all of the blame. "Tell him it was me," Ray whispers quickly. "Tell him I broke it, and maybe he won't…you know."

But even if it had been Ray, it doesn't matter one bit to Gordon Brandel. To him, everything is always Marty's fault. Always Marty's fault when things get broken; always Marty's fault when things get screwed up. Always Marty's fault for merely existing. And this time is no exception.

The damage is already done. And when his father arrives home from drinking with his buddies, Marty knows he's in trouble. He'd sent Ray home before cornering Marty in the den, his face reddened with both fury and alcohol as the boy tries to stutter out an apology, an explanation, anything. "It – it was an accident! We were just playing baseball!"

"So now you wanna play baseball?" Brandel growls, his words slurring together in his drunken rage. "Huh? That what you want?"

"I – I didn't mean to! I didn't!" Marty chokes out, clutching the bat in his trembling fingers, ignoring his father's demands to hand it over. It means nothing, though, because within seconds, the man forcibly rips the bat out of the little boy's hands. In the background, he can vaguely hear his mother's pleas – pleas that soon grow desperate, but remain unanswered, unheard.

"Like hell you didn't mean to," Brandel growls. "Just like you didn't mean to break that plate at supper last night. Just like you didn't mean to break that vase, running through the house like a damn bull. That's all you ever do – break things. You wanna break more? Huh? Are you that ungrateful that you just don't care how much it costs to fix things? Money that I work my ass off to bring home? Fine. If that's what you want, you're gonna get it. You don't care? Then I don't give a damn either!" With that, Brandel swings the bat, sending a lamp crashing loudly to the floor.

Marty whimpers, his terrified blue eyes filling with tears as bits of ceramic and glass bulb litter the hardwood floor. "What the hell are you crying for now? That's what you wanted, ain't it?" He swings the bat again, sending a potted plant and a framed photo of the three of them (staged, of course – nothing more important than keeping up appearances to the outside world) to the ground.

"Gordon, stop it!"

He turns to Marty's mother, the fury in his eyes leaving her cowering in less than a second. "You shut up!" he roars. "If you keep babying him, the worthless little brat ain't never going to learn anything!"

"He's just five! Please!"

"And next year it'll be that he's just six! And in five years, it'll be that he's just ten! No more excuses. I'm done with this."

After that, everything happens in a blur of breaking glass and loud voices – the frantic cries of his mother, the drunken, enraged roars of his father. Marty's pulse beats furiously in his ears, deafening him as terror, sheer terror rushes through his veins. He tries so desperately to stop the sting of tears in his own eyes because to his father, well, that's just another thing worth being punished for. He tries to run, tries to get to his room but Marty stumbles, his bare knees crashing into a patch of broken glass on the floor. He cries out as the sharp flash of pain shoots through him, but that's nothing compared to the fear that grips him as his father reaches out for him, his free hand grabbing him roughly by the collar of his shirt.

In a weak attempt to stop him, his mother feebly grips at Brandel's arm, begging him to stop, to let go. And, surprisingly, he does.

He lets go of Marty…only to turn his aggression on his mother. With an enraged, incoherent shout, Brandel easily throws her to the glass-laden ground, ignoring her cries of pain.

Marty sees what's coming, and suddenly, this five year old boy wants nothing more than to protect his mother. He climbs back to his feet just as Brandel whips around, the baseball bat in his hand carving through the air.

And that's when the bat cracks hard against Marty's mouth. The force of the hit knocks Marty clear to the ground; for a moment, he sees stars and suddenly, he's in so much agony that he can barely breathe. He starts to cough, choking on the metallic taste of blood…and that's when he realizes he's missing two of his teeth.

And then he sees them – they're on the hardwood floor, surrounded by splatters of blood and shards of glass.

Hours later, he's sitting on an exam table in the emergency room, his lip quivering as the doctor examines the damage. "He was playing baseball with a friend in the backyard," his mother explains, hovering by with a worried expression in her eyes, and as he grew older, Marty would realize that the worry wasn't exactly for him, but for whether or not he would tell what really happened. "He tried to swing at the ball, but ended up catching it with his mouth."

The doctor chuckles quietly. "I left a few games like that myself when I was a kid," he says conversationally, gently patting Marty on the head. "It's always easy to hit the ball until you're the one trying to hit it." He smiles warmly. "Luckily, those teeth would have been due to come out soon anyway – just baby teeth. Few stitches and we'll get you fixed up and back out on the diamond in no time, kiddo."

He never wants to touch a baseball ever again.

-:-

His face is swollen that night as his mother tucks him into bed, but he hasn't cried a tear since the drive home from the ER. "He didn't mean to, sweetheart," his mother says. "You know Daddy loves you. He'd never hurt you on purpose. It was just an accident, baby."

With that, she presses a soft kiss to her little boy's forehead, a gentle hand smoothing down the mop of golden curls atop his head. "Goodnight, Marty."

As she turns out the light and closes the door, Marty pulls the covers over his head, no longer able to fight back the tears. Even in the dark, he's scared of his father finding out.

Later, he awakes to the sound of his parents fighting again, the shouts of anger and pain echoing up to his room. Squeezing his eyes shut, Marty forces himself to focus on his mother's soothing words to him, desperately clinging to them with all that he is.

They had to be true, right?

She was his mother. She wouldn't lie to him…

Surely he can trust one person in this world.

The sand is warm beneath his toes, despite the relative chill of the early morning. A quiet breeze blows in from the sea, the salty air tickling his skin, leaving him yearning for the waves. Deeks feels the pull; there's a subtle ache deep in his chest as he watches a small handful of surfers take advantage of the swells.

Before everything that had happened, Deeks had never ignored the call of the ocean.

Now, he doesn't know if he'll ever get back out there.

He remembers quite vividly telling Kensi once that the ocean is where all surfers go to escape their problems and if there's one thing he knows to be utterly and completely true, it's that. It's been true for him ever since he was a teenager, lost and confused, unsure of where he was headed in life or if he even had a future worth fighting for. On the waves, he'd always been able to push everything aside for a few hours and return to it later, his mind much clearer, much calmer.

The ocean is the one thing that's always been there, the one thing that has never changed. The one constant that has never abandoned him.

And as much as he would kill to be out there right now, well, Deeks can't bring himself to challenge that truth, not right now.

He's afraid it won't be the same.

He's not convinced that any amount of surfing would be enough to cleanse his soul this time.

The tide comes in slowly, bringing the breakers closer and closer to his spot on the sand before it rises no more, the highest water never even reaching his toes before it slowly begins to head back out to sea. Deeks simply sits and watches, lost in the dark caverns of his mind. The surfers come and go, one more heading into the ocean for each one who retreats and God, Deeks can almost feel his fingertips itch for a board.

It's then that he hears a voice behind him, quiet, yet somehow perfectly audible over the breakers. "I don't think you'll catch many waves from there, Mr. Deeks."

Anyone else, he might have asked how they'd found him. But Hetty, well, she knows everything. Deeks just shrugs – he's surprised, really, that she hadn't found him sooner. "I don't know that I'll be catching anymore waves at all," he replies, his eyes to the horizon. He doesn't turn to face Hetty; doesn't think he can, really.

He hasn't done well looking anyone in the eye lately.

"You just have to get back up on the board," she simply says in reply. "Something you've always been excellent at."

It's no secret to him that she's not really talking about surfing. And, if he's honest with himself, he hadn't been either. "Yeah, well…there's a point when it's just not worth it anymore and you have to…give up," he says, his gaze watching a young surfer in the distance as he tumbles off of his board. "Sometimes the waves are too rough."

"Nonsense," Hetty scoffs.

Deeks shakes his head. "Part of being a surfer means knowing when it's too risky to keep trying," he says. "You wouldn't try to surf in a storm."

"No, but you get back out there the next day." She pauses for a moment, letting the gravity of her words settle in. "One bad day does not have to sour all the rest."

"But when your board breaks…"

"You get another one."

He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath of cool sea air. "It's not always that easy," he says quietly after a moment. "Sometimes you can't afford a new board. Or maybe you…don't want it." It's a metaphor for everything that's been haunting his thoughts since he'd woken up in the hospital, and really, it's nice to be able to express it. And he's grateful for the surf jargon, because otherwise, he's not sure he'd ever be able to say any of this to Hetty. To anyone. "Sometimes it's just not worth it anymore."

"If you actually believed that, you would have given up a long time ago," Hetty says softly. "You don't, though. And you haven't. The very fact that you're sitting here having this conversation with me is proof that it is still worth it."

His throat tightens as a feeling of shame washes over him. "I came close," he confesses, his voice no more than a whisper. "I just…don't know anymore. I don't know if any of it even matters." Slowly, Deeks closes his fingers around a handful of sand, the tiny particles in his palm serving to remind him of something else he'd held in his hand, just a couple nights before. It's a dark reminder of just how very close he'd come, just how far he'd strayed from the light. The thoughts and the desire had taken such a strong hold upon him; that lack of control scares him, terrifies him. He had come so close…

"But you didn't," Hetty says, almost as if reading his mind. It used to intimidate Deeks, but now, he's kind of glad for it because there's no way he could force himself to vocalize those thoughts. "You're a fighter, Mr. Deeks. You've always have been."

"What if…I'm tired of it?"

"What if you're not? You've been through a lot…but that doesn't change who you are."

To that, he has no reply.

Moments later, when finally he rises and shakes the sand from his body, Hetty is gone.

Her words, however, linger, and Deeks can't deny that she's right.

(Hetty's always right.)

"You ready to give up yet?" Sidorov's partner sneers, his lips curved in an evil grin as he takes in the sight of his prisoner, bound down and covered in blood.

Deeks fights back a wave of nausea. He doesn't know how long he's been here, how long this has been going on, but what he does know is that he's fading fast. His vision is blurry and he doesn't know how much blood he's lost, but he knows it's a lot. He can feel that it's a lot. "I – I already told you everything," he forces out, each and every word causing him pain. "There's nothing – nothing left to say. I don't know anything."

Sidorov chuckles darkly, slowly pacing a circle around his prisoner while his partner drifts back to rest against the wall, just outside of Deeks' range of vision. "Yes, you've told us repeatedly who you are," he says smoothly, no trace of annoyance in his voice. Instead, he sounds…amused. Just the thought makes Deeks' stomach clench even harder. "LAPD narcotics officer, yes, yes, you've said. You were casing the house, and you have no idea who he is," he repeats, glancing through the doorway at Sam.

Deeks thinks he should probably keep his mouth shut, but well…he's never been too good at that. "Yeah…did it finally sink through your thick skull?" he retorts, fighting for the strength to force out every word. Why does it matter what he says or does now? He's going to die anyway. And really, he's got nothing left to lose but his life.

"Only one with a thick skull here," Sidorov says, his lips twisting in a cruel smirk as he roughly clasps Deeks' shoulder. "Is you, my friend. You can keep it up as long as you like, but that doesn't change the fact that every word coming out of your mouth is a lie. Lie after lie after lie. It would be amusing, watching you squirm under the pressure…except for one little thing – I don't really appreciate being made out for a fool."

"Maybe you are a fool," Deeks mutters, his head falling forward over his chest. He's not sure how much longer he'll have the strength to try and hold it up. "If you're so certain I'm lying, then show me proof."

"You're the one who needs to show me proof," Sidorov replies, his voice merely a whisper. "Prove to me that you are who you say you are. But, before you do that…why don't you tell me exactly what kind of narcotics investigation you running all those months ago back at the Rosslyn, hmm?" He pauses for a moment, letting the weight of his revelation sink in – even if he didn't know exactly who the other prisoner is, he clearly remembers the blond he'd passed in the hotel hallway that day. "Well? Tell me. Maybe some kind of lucrative cocaine business sprouting up in Hollywood? Or a cartel ring running heroin up from Mexico? Or maybe…"

He grins, tracing the barrel of his own gun along a bleeding cut high on Deeks' cheek. Still fresh, the wound stings and Deeks can't help but wince. "You're lying, Special Agent. I don't know who you are, exactly, but I do know that. You've been lying the whole time."

Deeks swallows hard, wincing as the motion feels just like sandpaper to the back of his throat. "No," he bites out. "I am not an agent."

"Liar!" shouts Sidorov. And then, pain utterly explodes in Deeks' skull, tearing a cry of agony from his lips before he can even comprehend what had happened. He blinks his watering eyes, but the stars refuse to clear from his vision. He'd been dizzy before, but now the entire room begins to spin around him, and it's only after another moment passes that he realizes the gun Sidorov had been tracing along his face had been slammed harshly against his cheekbone, almost certainly fracturing it. "You think you're so clever, don't you?" Sidorov continues, but Deeks can barely concentrate on the words now; he's in far too much pain. "You think your team of agents has the upper hand on me, don't you? You think you know everything."

With that, Sidorov holsters his gun, then rests his palms on the sides of the chair as he leans in, his face almost sickeningly close to Deeks'. "But you're wrong," he whispers. "You've been wrong since the beginning."

Deeks looks away, but barely a second later, a hand clasps his sore jaw, forcing his face forward again. "I know everything," Sidorov hisses. "I know Quinn has been playing me since the very beginning – or, should I say, Michelle?" It takes everything within him to keep his face passive, to not react – but it's not because of the words. It's the pain radiating through every fiber of Deeks' being; pain so intense that his every instinct is screaming at him to give in, to tell Sidorov everything he wants to hear.

He hates himself for letting the very thought even cross his mind.

Sidorov straightens then, opting for a different tactic to break his prisoner. "It was…very valiant of you to save your partner," he says slowly, resuming his leisurely pacing. Deeks closes his eyes – the circular motion combined with the pain and the exhaustion is enough to leave his own head spinning. "So touching, watching you jump in the pool and drag him to safety, watching you fight for his life. But tell me…"

He's back in front of Deeks now, a smirk on his lips as he gazes down at his prisoner. "Would he have done the same for you?"

Deeks knows exactly what Sidorov is doing – it's a tactic he's played more than once while undercover. Break the weakest partner by casting doubt upon the partnership. But even though Deeks knows it's just a tactic to make him talk, there's a dark corner of his mind where he can't quite shake the truth of what he's saying.

And clearly, he's grown too weak to hide it. The doubt must show on his face, because Sidorov continues, his voice nothing if not gleeful. "Look at him," he hisses. He waits for a beat, then when Deeks makes no effort to lift his head, Sidorov fists a hand roughly into his prisoner's unruly hair and yanks his head back, forcing him to lock eyes with Sam from across the room. "Look at him. All he has to do is open his mouth and tell us what we want to hear, and this is over. I leave you alone. But he won't. He won't. Because you…are nothing to him. You're worthless. If it had been your body floating at the bottom of that pool, he would have gladly left you there to die. If I gave him the opportunity to walk away free right now, in exchange for your pathetic life…he would take it in a heartbeat. He would gladly turn his back on you and let you die.

"Now, tell me," Sidorov continues, lowering his voice so that it's barely audible even in the space between him and Deeks. "Why would you show such nobility for someone who wouldn't even consider doing the same for you? Would you truly give your life to me, right now, to let him walk away alive?"

He watches the doubt grow in Deeks' blue eyes; it's exactly what he wants to see. Releasing his hair, Sidorov steps away for a brief second, long enough to retrieve something from the nearest table. Deeks' vision blurs, but he glimpses a shimmer of metal, the blade of a knife. "He never tried to stop me, Agent," Sidorov whispers, gingerly tracing a fingertip along the blade. "Not once. I told him that his turn was up – that it was time for me to break you, the weaker one. Not only did he not try to stop me, but he relaxed. Look at him – he's relieved he's not the one going through this. He's glad it's you."

Deeks lets his eyes fall closed for but a moment; he's not sure how much longer he can fight the pull of darkness. His energy is draining quickly, taking with it his will to fight. But that's not something he can let Sidorov see. He can't. Sidorov cannot win. "I know what you're doing," he forces out, his voice little more than a shaky whisper. Slowly he traces his tongue over his lips, wincing slightly as the pressure leaves a fresh cut stinging. "You're not – you're not getting into my head."

Sidorov chuckles quietly, and that's when Deeks feels the cold knife against his throat, just underneath his chin. At first, it's barely a tickle as Sidorov merely traces the blade along his skin; he stiffens, knowing what's coming. "Too late," his captor whispers. "I'm already there."

His skin breaks with a sharp burst of pain, and within seconds, Deeks feels the sickening trickle of his own blood down the column of his neck. "So close," Sidorov breathes, bringing the knife to rest just above his prisoner's carotid artery. "Such a powerful feeling, knowing that with one quick flick of my wrist, you would never see another day."

Deeks swallows hard, feeling his pulse throb against the metallic blade. "Then do it," he spits out. "Get – get it over with."

Sidorov snickers. "I don't think so. Not yet. I'm not…done with you…"

And then, Deeks blacks out.

He's seeing someone.

He'd expected it, so it was no surprise when both Hetty, as operations manager, and Callen, as the team leader, had required it of him. So Deeks hadn't fought it…though he had made one simple request.

Not Nate.

If Hetty had been surprised, it hadn't shown in her face (then again, he knows the tiny operations manager has one hell of a poker face). She'd relented, referring him to an outside source. It's not that he doesn't like Nate or think he's very good at what he does. It's just that…Nate's on the inside. He's too connected. And even if he is the best operational psychologist around, well, Deeks just isn't sure he could admit to the other man everything he'd been through, and then face the possibility of working with him every day going forward.

Eight weeks in, though, and Deeks is wondering if maybe he should have accepted Nate instead of someone on the outside. Sam spoke to Nate, and he's back to work already. It leaves Deeks more than just a little bitter.

For sixty minutes twice a week, he sits on a simple, brown leather couch, his vacant stare, once such a rich cerulean blue, now dim and hollow as it focuses on a blank spot somewhere on the distant wall. He's never really been the type to talk about his feelings, at least, not like this. Deeks really doesn't know where to begin.

What was he supposed to say, anyway?

Was he supposed to say he'd felt his own borrowed time slip from his fingers as he and Sam had been shoved into the back of that dusty old van?

Was he supposed to admit that he'd carried no hope with him? That he'd fully expected his life to be torn slowly away from him, bit by bit?

Was he supposed to say that there was one solitary reason in which he would have broken? When he would have told anyone anything they'd wanted to hear, right down to every last secret bequeathed to him?

Was he supposed to confess that he'd never expected anyone to save him?

That he'd never expected anyone to care to save him?

Was he supposed to whisper the words that had haunted him every night since, a dark, horrific desire that, at the time, he'd have given anything for? Was he supposed to confess that, with his mouth throbbing with agony, blood and sweat drying slowly upon his skin, consciousness threatening to abandon him at any moment…was he really supposed to sit here and admit that all he'd wanted, what he'd wanted more than anything was for it all to end?

Was he supposed to admit that he'd wanted to die?

Not if he wants to ever actually be cleared to return to work. He knows this system; he knows how it works.

Twenty-five minutes into yet another session of relative silence, his therapist makes the first attempt at conversation. "You're bleeding."

The old Marty Deeks would have cracked a smile and pointed out just how astute an observation that was. But this Marty Deeks, the hollow, fragmented shell of the man he once was…he simply shrugs, glancing down at his knuckles. Bloodied, sticky, remnants of his punishing workout with the heavy bag in the gym. It's become part of his daily routine; some days are more…intense than others.

It seems to correlate with how badly he'd slept the night before, with how vivid the nightmares had been.

Last night, he'd been in Sam's place.

Watching Kensi.

He has to excuse himself momentarily as the memory itself makes him physically ill.

He fights his restraints so forcibly that the wires cut into his wrists, a momentary sharp burst of pain that gives way quickly to perfect, uninterrupted rings of blood. His head pounds from the shocks; he can still feel the electricity pulse through his body like lightning. Deeks doesn't care, though – he'd take it over and over again until his very last breath just to have the power to stop what's happening now.

Just to have the power to save her.

Her eyes glisten with tears brought on by the sheer agony of torture, but Deeks knows that's as close as she will ever come to breaking. He wishes, just this once, that she would falter. He wishes she would break down, tell them everything. He wishes she would save herself.

Because this time, he's not good enough to save her.

His screams echo off the walls, adding to the ache in his head; he's never screamed louder in his entire life but it's as if he's the only one hearing his desperate pleas – he realizes, with the sickening lurch of despair, that he probably is. They can't hear him at all.

He could give them everything to save her, and it wouldn't change a thing.

Through the dusty windows, her gaze finally meets his, and what he sees in her eyes breaks his heart into tiny jagged shards. Under the inevitable tears, there's fiery resolve, there's stubbornness, there's recklessness. There's the undeniable sense of fight that Kensi Blye would be merely a fraction of herself without. It's all there, and it's stronger than ever, and it hits him with the force of a speeding train that she would do everything for him that he knows he would always do for her.

She would rather take the suffering than watch him go through it.

She would die to save him.

And because of that, she's not going to let herself break.

That truth has him fighting his restraints with a renewed determination, the harsh cry of his voice like sandpaper to his dry throat. All he achieves, though, is exhaustion and pain as his heart pumps harder, forcing blood through abused veins. And God, it hurts, but he'd take the physical agony five times over just to stop the knife that's slowly and systematically tearing his very soul apart.

He watches her bleed; watches her fight. He watches her lips move, no doubt throwing back some sassy retort to her captors (oh why, Kensi, why?). He bites down hard on his lip, tasting his own blood, knowing he would spill every pint of his own just to stop them from taking hers.

His stomach clenches with a horrendous bout of nausea as Sidorov finally approaches her with the drill, that sick, smug grin upon his face. He roughly fists one hand in her hair, yanking her head back and tearing a cry of pain from her throat. Deeks' vision goes utterly red as the unmistakable whirr of the drill reaches his own ears; he's forced to watch as Sidorov brings the drill closer and closer to Kensi's mouth and never in his life has he felt more powerless, more useless than he does now. He can't do anything for her.

The scream that fills his ears as the drill finally makes contact is like nothing he's ever heard before.

-:-

He wakes up screaming her name.

She's not there, and neither is Sidorov. He's in his room, and as he tries to catch his breath, Deeks realizes that yet again, the nightmares have conquered him.

This is the worst one yet.

And tonight, he can't even pretend to convince himself to go back to sleep.

He's out of bed and dressed before he even realizes it, and then, he's in his car, his mind barely there as he drives to someplace only his instinct knows. He knows, though, that with the way he's gripping the steering wheel, he's preparing for a fight.

The puzzle pieces don't fall into place until he's parking in front of Ops – the heavy bag in the gym is his destination, and he's determined to fight out every last bit of his frustration.

But then, a quiet sense of calm settles over him as he steps through the old Spanish doors; he's not supposed to be here, but tonight, he doesn't let that stop him. It's almost as if he'd never left; almost as if he hasn't been absent for a little more than a month and he can't help but let his feet guide him slowly into the midst of the bullpen, silent beneath the cover of night.

For a moment, he simply stands there, taking in the sight before him.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear the playful back and forth between Callen and Sam; he can almost hear the soft crinkle of plastic as Kensi claws her way into a snack cake or a bag of candy, anything to give her a sugar rush. He can almost hear the quick, shrill whistle from the top of the stairs, alerting them all that a new case is on deck; he can almost hear the quiet, wise words of their operations manager, no doubt surprising them all yet again with her nearness.

It brings a deep ache to the center of Deeks' chest – he hadn't quite realized just how much he'd missed this place; how much he'd missed them.

And he'd never, ever realized just how much like home this old Spanish mission had begun to feel. As he drifts over to his desk, he finds himself almost surprised that it's been untouched. It's just as he'd left it.

He'd expected them to start searching for his replacement almost immediately. As his fingers trace along the edge of the desk, a frown tugs at his lips as he remembers just how reluctant the rest of the team had been to accept him. "You can't sit here," Sam had growled, and while it hadn't really bothered him at the time (he'd refused to let it – after all, he was used to being unwanted), now, he can't really shake the harsh words. He can't ignore them; can't ignore the fact that, at least with Sam, nothing had ever really changed. The SEAL had never really accepted him as a legitimate member of this elite team; he'd never wanted anything to do with him, really.

He glances over the other three desks, taking in the nameplates that grace each one.

Kensi Blye. Sam Hanna. G. Callen.

But no Marty Deeks.

Had he ever really belonged here at all?

Despair and anger mingle deep within his soul again; he trembles as he leaves the bullpen, setting off once more for the heavy bag in the gym.

He startles, feeling the couch settle next to him – it's embarrassing, he thinks, that he's still jumping at every little noise, every little movement he sees from the corner of his eye. It crosses his mind that maybe that's why he hasn't been cleared to come back to work yet – maybe, in this state, he'd be more a danger to his partner than anything else. It's more than disheartening, casting a darkness upon his thoughts that he just can't shake – he didn't think he was good enough for Kensi in the first place; now…now, he doesn't know how he can ever trust himself to put her life in his hands again.

The feel of cool, damp cotton brushing over his abused, bloodied knuckles somehow draws him back; he hisses quietly in pain, but takes the offered washcloth from his therapist's neatly manicured fingers. She doesn't return to her chair, though; instead, she lingers on the couch, her blue eyes carefully studying the broken man beside her. "Tell me what happened, Marty," she coaxes gently.

It's his name that does it. Marty. Softer, less blunt than just Deeks. Not that he's ever really thought about it before – he's always just been Deeks. To NCIS, to the LAPD, even back to law school and college. For the first time, he finds the words on his tongue, the first meaningful words to leave his lips inside the four walls of this room. "I have dreams," he admits quietly. "Almost every night. Just…dreams."

She nods slowly. "It's common to have dreams after a traumatic experience like that."

"I know," Deeks replies quietly. "They're just…all so vivid. It's like, every time I close my eyes, I'm right back there. It's happening all over again." His eyes cast downward, Deeks absently picks at a wounded knuckle, grounding himself with the sharp flash of pain. It's the only thing that cements him to the present; the only thing that keeps him from stumbling back into the arms of the demons in the past. "I'm sitting there; I can't move. They're asking me all the same questions, all over again, and I know what's coming, but I can't do anything. And it's just…pain. So much pain." Deeks pauses, shuddering heavily.

"Do you have anyone you can talk to?" she asks gently, nothing but genuine compassion in her voice.

Deeks scoffs slightly. "I thought that was what you were for."

She smiles. "Well, yes. But I mean, someone else. A support system from your friends. People at work. A girlfriend, even. Just someone you can lean on, you know?"

It breaks her heart, the slow, dejected shake of his head. "I don't have anyone." Never have, never will.

"What about your partner? He was there with you…"

Deeks' answer is flat. "He's not my partner. He'd rather die than call me his partner."

-:-

That night, he sneaks back into Ops again for another session with the heavy bag. His heart pounds and every muscle in his body aches as he hits and hits and hits, his face contorted by a mix of pain and determination, a deadly combination. He doesn't bother to wrap his hands; no, instead he feels the fire rip through his entire being each time his knuckles connect. As it intensifies, Deeks only hits harder until everything he is, everything he knows is concentrated in the sting of broken skin, the metallic scent of blood.

The pain is his only release.

But he's smart enough not to tell a shrink that, especially one who already thinks he's too mentally unstable to be cleared to go back to work.

He doesn't know how much more of this he can take. From across the hall, Deeks' eyes lock with Sam's for a split second, and the fear he sees in the other man's eyes utterly breaks him. The SEAL doesn't trust him at all.

But he has no idea what Marty Deeks has been through in his life.

He has no idea the lengths he's gone to.

And he sure as hell has no idea that Deeks has been here before.

Not here, tied to this chair, bleeding to death while Isaak Sidorov cackles evilly. But he's been in plenty of the same situations – literal life or death situations.

He's felt the cold metal of the barrel of a gun press almost gingerly at his temple; he's heard the deceptively soft click as it's cocked into place, just waiting for the squeeze of the trigger. He's felt sickeningly heated breath against his skin, heard the whispers and their evolution into screams as he stays stubbornly silent because at the end of the day, what's important is the operation. Marty Deeks is just a pawn; Marty Deeks is expendable. The one thing he can do is take his secrets to the grave.

(People have plenty of negative reasons to remember him already – he won't add being a snitch in the final moments of his life to that long list.)

He's had his head held underwater until the stars were dancing in his vision and his lungs were bursting with agony, the fiery, desperate need for oxygen literally killing him. He's had cold hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing, constricting, a little tighter each time he refused to break. He's had needles break his skin and invade his veins, filling him with burning liquid, leaving him with mere seconds before fading into blackness, a little heavier and a little longer each time. He's had broken ribs and bruises and cuts that left behind jagged scars, dark memories of the hazards of the job.

He's never allowed himself to be broken.

And he won't now.

Sam thinks he's weak.

Sam thinks he's nothing but shaggy-haired misfit who can't take anything seriously, who was forced into the midst of their team, completely uninvited, completely unwanted. Sam thinks he's not good enough – not good enough to be Kensi's partner, not good enough to be his partner. Not good enough for the team.

Sam thinks he'll break.

But Deeks knows he'll die before he breaks.

And he's secure in this knowledge even when a third person arrives at the warehouse. A third, very familiar person. Deeks watches Sam's eyes widen as he hears the sound of his wife's voice; her heels clack loudly on the hard floor and then she's there, her eyes cold, filled with disdain as she takes in the sight of Sidorov's prisoners.

Deeks can practically see Sam's stomach twist inward on itself as he watches Michelle take Sidorov in a passionate kiss.

(It's never easy to watch, even when it's just a cover.)

He watches Michelle, watches her move flawlessly through Quinn's steps and it just kills him, because she is good. She's got the training; she's got everything she needs to assimilate into her cover. She's just as good as all the rest of them – maybe even better and if Deeks didn't know better, he'd believe she was on Sidorov's side.

But, he does know better.

Unfortunately, so does Sidorov.

She could play the cover without breaking until her very last breath, and it wouldn't make a difference at all because her cover has already been blown. It's the most dangerous position she could possibly be in – Deeks knows, because he's been there himself.

A deep shudder courses through his body as the memory ensnares him – up until this moment, there'd been nothing in his life that had left him more terrified than when Radovan Lasik had looked him in the eye and called him by name. If not for Callen and the others, the NCIS team that had backed him up when LAPD had turned away, Deeks knows he would have died in that warehouse.

And he would have died slowly…and very, very painfully.

Because continuing to hold tight to your cover when the enemy knows you're lying is perhaps the greatest insult of all. What he'd done that day, refusing to break cover when Lasik knew exactly who he was…it's exactly what Michelle is doing now.

A quick glance to Sam through the dusty window reveals that the older man has realized that as well. He can see the turmoil in his eyes, even through the haze that clouds his own vision. The only one truly in the dark is Michelle and if there were some possible way to enlighten her without getting her killed, Deeks doesn't have to wonder about it to know that he would do it. He would do it, not for Sam, but because he can imagine what it would be like if Michelle were Kensi.

In the end, though, he knows there's no way. And just as Kensi would hold her cover to the very end, so does Michelle.

So Deeks keeps his silence, even as Sidorov hands Michelle his gun, requesting (demanding, really) that she prove her allegiance.

And silent he remains as Michelle puts a bullet into both of them.

"Look, we miss you, man," Sam says out of the blue, eight minutes into the second quarter. It's a Sunday afternoon, and he'd shown up at Deeks' door with takeout and soda, and while it hadn't been high on Deeks' list of ways to spend the afternoon, he hadn't quite been able to turn the other man down.

Until now, they'd watched the game in near-silence, a few comments on incomplete passes and a missed field goal the only conversation until now. It takes Deeks by surprise, but he doesn't let it show on his face. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the screen, seemingly very invested in this early season game, even though it's third and long and he's never in his life been a Raiders fan (hates them, actually – they were his dad's team). "You know, you don't have to lie to me," he replies quietly. "You've never sugarcoated anything so why start now?"

"We do," Sam insists. "It's just…different without you there. And everybody can feel it. We want you back."

"Sam," he says evenly, standing abruptly from the couch. Too abruptly, he realizes as a wave of dizziness nearly knocks him off his feet again. He stands strong, though; unwilling to give the former SEAL any more confirmation that he truly is, was, and always will be the weakest part of their fractured team. "Don't pretend that you actually believe that. There was only one time," he begins, crossing slowly to the window, "that you ever acted like I belonged there. I wasn't expecting any of that to change just because I…just because of what happened."

"Deeks…"

Deeks reaches out, resting a palm against the wall – he's growing stronger again, but it'll take a few good nights of sleep before even the smallest tasks cease to exhaust him. Pathetic, he thinks. "And I think we both remember that everything about that day was a lie," he finishes, his voice little more than a whisper. "Probably the only reason you were able to say it at all, huh?"

You made the team better.

The words echo through both their heads, the memory still so vividly clear. So clear, that Deeks knows he doesn't have to clarify his next question. "You didn't mean it, did you?"

Sam doesn't answer.

Deeks doesn't need him to. "That's exactly what I thought."

"Look. Every single one of us had to prove ourselves," Sam says, his voice a bit harsher than he'd intended. He can't quite bite back the need to defend himself, to defend their team – he can't help it, really. He's always been ready to fight for his team.

It hits him, then – maybe that's always been the problem. Maybe he has been so focused on making sure nothing happened to his team that he'd purposely kept Deeks on the outside. There's a million reasons – all of them good ones in his head…but looking at the other man now, well, maybe he'd been wrong.

It's the first time he's ever entertained that possibility.

He pauses for a moment; when Sam speaks again, his voice is softer. His intention now isn't to put the younger man through any more pain. "I had to prove myself to G before he trusted me enough to have his back in the field. Same with him – he had to prove to me that I could rely on him when things got complicated. And Kensi…she was new to NCIS once. We didn't know her. She had to prove her own merit. It's not –"

"It's been three years, Sam," Deeks interrupts quietly. "Three years."

"It takes time…" Even to Sam's own ears, the words sound nothing but hollow. Trite.

"Yeah, well, Kensi and I didn't have time," he retorts, and it's then that the first real burst of anger begins to flare up within him. He's forced it back until now; truth be told, it would have taken more energy than he'd had to give into it. But now, Deeks can't stop it. He feels it flow through his veins, sharp and acidic, burning into the farthest parts of his being. "If it had taken three years for Kensi to trust me, do you know where she'd be?" He pauses for a moment, unconsciously clenching his hands into fists. "She'd be dead – do you get that? Kensi would be dead."

"Deeks. I'm not-"

"She barely even knew me. And I barely knew her. But we were partners. We were on the same team. And when it came down to it, I was the one she wanted pulling her through those lasers, not the bomb squad. She could have waited a little bit longer and been perfectly safe. But she chose to trust me, knowing that there was a chance I could get us both killed. Knowing that one wrong move from either of us…"

He stops abruptly, his voice breaking momentarily under the weight of emotion. "She trusted me. There was a time when Kensi trusted me with her life. Her life. And stupid me, I would have thought that would mean something. Guess not."

The past tense in his voice doesn't escape Sam, and it's easier to pursue that than the actual issue at hand. "There was a time?"

He shrugs. "I can't really expect that from her any more, can I?" It's more a statement than a sentence, and Deeks can't deny just how much it hurts to admit it. "I'll never be her partner again, so what does it matter?"

"What are you talking about?"

With that, Deeks sighs, retrieving a folder he'd stashed in a nearby drawer. It's something that's been on his mind a lot lately, and well, now seems like as good a time as any. His features unreadable, he crosses the room to Sam, folder in hand. "Here," he says roughly, dropping it carelessly onto Sam's lap.

Sam blinks in confusion, glancing down at the folder briefly before looking back to Deeks. "What's this?"

Deeks scoffs, slowly reclaiming his spot on the couch. Just as before, he focuses his eyes intently on the screen in front of him, resolutely choosing to avoid the other man's gaze. "It's what you want, Sam."

With no other explanation offered, Sam slowly opens the folder, recognizing something he'd filled out long ago himself. "It's an application," he says. "To NCIS."

Deeks nods. "Yeah."

Sam glances down, skimming over the filled-in blanks on the pages before him. "When did you…?"

"I didn't," Deeks replies simply. "Hetty's work." The ghost of a smile briefly touches his lips, but that's all it is – a ghost. Haunted. Dark. "See, one person seemed to think I belonged here."

To that, Sam doesn't reply. Instead, his eyes make their way to the bottom of the last page, taking in the one tiny detail that had been left blank. "You didn't sign these."

Deeks sighs, closing his eyes as he rests his aching head against the back of the couch. "It was before Romania," he begins, the memory of that day a bit blurred around the edges – he's spent so much time trying not to think about it, trying to avoid it. "She uh, she pulled me aside and gave it to me."

"That was two years ago," Sam says.

"Yeah." He nods slowly. "Hetty wanted me to resign from LAPD and…and become a full-time agent." His blue eyes come open, and for the first time, Deeks looks directly at Sam. "Ridiculous, right?"

Sam doesn't respond to that. Instead, he closes the folder with a scoff, then tosses it resolutely onto the coffee table. "I'm not giving that back to Hetty, Deeks. You want to, you can do it yourself. But I won't do it."

"You sure about that?"

"Deeks, stop it. If I really thought that was for the best, then yeah, I would return it for you. But I'm not going to do that."

"You don't think it's the best thing to do." Deeks just watches him, not quite believing the words coming out of the other man's mouth. "Then by all means, let me ask you something, if you really believe all of a sudden that I should be there."

He waits for a beat, meeting Sam's gaze head-on as he continues. "Did you ever, even for half a second, trust that I wouldn't break back at that warehouse?"

For a long moment, Sam can only look at him. It's a situation where pure honesty does as much damage as a blatant lie, and all the wishing in the world that things could have been different changes nothing. "Turn it around," Sam says finally, turning his gaze back to the tv. It's an empty stare, though; he sees nothing on the screen through the heavy haze of pain, of regret. "Would you have trusted me not to break?"

"You would have taken it all to the grave," Deeks answers without hesitation. "That's who you are. That's what you've been trained to do – give nothing up." He stops for a moment, letting the weight of his words add to the tension in the air between them. "So, yeah, yeah I would have trusted you."

"Deeks. Look –"

"I didn't break, Sam," Deeks says quietly, interrupting Sam. "Did I want to? Did I want to just give them what they wanted when they were – when they were drilling through my teeth? When he was pressing a knife into my skin? Hitting me over and over again? Yeah, yeah, I wanted to. I wanted to, because I've never felt more pain in my life. It was – it was endless." He pauses, trying to steady his breath. No matter how much he tries, he can't quite suppress the anger.

Because on some level, he does blame Sam.

And while he knows it's somewhat irrational and misplaced, Deeks can't not blame him. He blames Sam for just sitting there, watching as he was put through utter hell, the only concern on the other man's mind whether or not Deeks would spill Michelle's secret. He blames Sam for coming out seemingly unscathed on the other side while he'd been plagued with months of nothing but pain, nothing but nightmares, nothing but torture that had never truly ended. He blames Sam for all the times he'd made it clear just what he thought of him – his skills, his jokes, his lifestyle, his hair; none of it ever good enough.

It would be one thing if Deeks had constantly failed time and time again. If he had given Sam a reason not to trust him; if he had given Sam a reason to doubt him.

He knows he hasn't, though.

It's not about whether or not he's proven himself.

It's simply about the fact that, no matter what he's done, Deeks has never been worth the time of day to the other man.

And that…that ends now. "I didn't break," he repeats, his voice little more than a low growl. "After everything I've put up with from you, maybe I should've. Maybe I should have given her up. But I didn't. I sat there and took everything. I could have saved myself, but you know what? I didn't. And you – you think you've got me all figured out, don't you? You think that, after three entire years, I'm still just a temp, just a cop who could never, ever be as good at any of this as the rest of you are. But you know what? You don't know anything about me." Feeling the tremor in his fingers, he clenches both hands into fists, feeling the spark of pain as he digs his nails into his palm. "You don't know anything. You don't know where I've been; you don't know what I've done undercover. You don't know how far I've had to go to keep a cover."

"Deeks. I –"

Deeks cuts him off – he's heard enough from the other man. "Next time you want to write me off as the weak link of this team, you get your facts straight first. Wasn't I the one coming to Hetty, asking for the support I needed to finish off that human trafficking ring, after LAPD had turned its back on me? I tried to spin my story to fit the case, knowing that Traynor and Ortega's had been compromised and they'd both paid for that with their lives. I went back in, knowing I might be next. And I was next. But you know what? I kept my cover until it was clear that it was broken. And even then, I admitted to nothing."

He takes a breath – the exertion is leaving him feeling dizzy by now but at this point, he can't stop. He can't, because so much of this has been building within him for the past three years, just waiting to burst. "I've had crazy, amped-up gang members shoving me into a brick wall in a dark alley, cocking guns against my skull, screaming that I was a rat, a cop. That they just knew I was feeding info to the LAPD to blow apart their entire operation." Deeks shudders involuntarily, his stomach lurching with the memory. This, in particular, was a long time ago…but the memories still haunt him just as clearly as any. "I swore that I wasn't. That I had no idea what they were talking about. I tried to pin the cop hat on someone else in the gang. But this guy, he – he grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head against the wall so hard that I literally saw stars, Sam. I could barely even stand on my own, but I could still hear him promise to empty his entire magazine into my head if I didn't prove it, right then and there. I had two options: break and end up dead, or compromise my own integrity to prove I was one of them."

He pauses, fixing Sam with his icy blue gaze. "I'm still here, so it's clear which one I chose. I – I took an innocent life that night, just for the sake of my cover. So, you need to think about whether or not you really still want me on the team, Sam. Because the next time you decide I'm not good enough because I don't have the super special agent training that you and Callen and Kensi have, you better think twice before you say it. I'm not taking it anymore. You don't know anything about me."

"You're right," Sam relents, standing from his chair. "Maybe I don't. But then again, you never really argued it – you just took it."

"Would it have mattered if I had?"

But Sam's gone before the question ever leaves Deeks' lips.

-:-

That night, he finds himself in the kitchen, glaring into the living room at the folder Sam had still insisted on leaving behind. Part of him tells him to take the small victory for what it is, but the rest of him…the dark, cynical side of him tells him that it's too little, too late. That, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter.

Deciding Sam wants Deeks on the team now doesn't erase the past three years.

If he wasn't good enough then, he's not good enough now.

And it's the truth of that that has him scowling as he opens a bottle of Jack, forgoing the inconvenience of a glass and choosing to drink straight from the bottle. His scowl only hardens as he remembers a piece of sagely wisdom Sam had offered him in the past.

"Don't let alcohol become your chosen form of stress relief."

But Marty Deeks doesn't really give a damn what Sam says now.

He doesn't really give a damn about what anyone has ever said to him.

"Everything you do is different. The way you dress, your jokes, your hair…it's about what it says about you as a person," Sam had said.

"You'll never be worth anything," his father had said.

"I guess you don't belong anywhere," Lieutenant Bates had said.

"You're nothing but a pathetic coward," an old girlfriend had said.

"I hope you get paralyzed in a car accident," Erin had said.

"Deeks? That's the best they could do?" Kensi had said.

The words echo in his head over and over again, and by the time he turns out the light, he's utterly miserable. Sam may judge him (hell, the man judges him for everything) for it, but at least he can numb himself for one night.

And so, he surrenders to his bedroom, open bottle in hand.

He awakens with pain, but that doesn't surprise him, not anymore. Eyes closed, he lingers in the darkness a moment longer, concentrating on the steady beeping of the monitors, audible evidence that he somehow remains among the living.

Audible evidence that it all hadn't been just a nightmare.

No matter how many times he wakes up, it will never, ever end.

(Part of him wishes he didn't have to wake up.)

"He's still out of it," he hears, the words filtering somewhat slowly through the heavy haze of his mind. It's little more than a quiet, rough whisper, raw emotion laced deeply into every word. Raw emotion…and utter uncertainty. It should make it entirely unrecognizable to him, but from the very first word, he recognizes her voice.

He could go through hell and back a few more times and he knows he'd still recognize her.

He'd never forget the one thing that pulled him through.

The bed dips slightly then and for a moment, Deeks can't help but hold his breath. Tension grips his body – he can't stop it, really; not while his mind is still convinced that the nightmare continues, where the last human interaction he had caused him nothing but agony.

But then, there's something else. Something new. It's soft as a feather, just barely there, almost hesitant, but he feels it. He feels it, and God, how something so simple, so innocent manages to cut through the pain, through the darkness. It's her touch, not accidental but completely deliberate, and it's as if it opens up a floodgate of memories deep within him. Memories that'd been silenced beneath the weight of torture, beneath the weight of pain. They'd stayed with him long enough to pull him through, to give him something else to hold onto as life itself seemed to be all but wrenched from his grasp. In the aftermath, though, they'd dimmed a bit in his memory, hidden beneath the vivid recollections of drills and blades and bullets; of chilling terror and debilitating agony.

Now, though, they're clearer than anything, eclipsing everything else and he's almost certain it's the drugs because very little else feels truly real right now, but he finds himself struck by just how much of their thing, how very much of everything they are, how much of everything they've always been since the very beginning seems to play out through touch - hand to hand, elbow to elbow, hip to hip. The tremble in her sweaty hands as she takes his, placing her trust, her life in his hands. The slight spark of pain in his arm as she grabs him, tugging him from the bullpen before Sam can kill him for something he's just said. The warmth of her palm on his chest, her touch straying beneath orange plaid fabric sometime in the night.

And now, her touch just ghosting along his forehead as her fingers gently stroke through his hair, almost absently, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her. It starts an ache deep in his chest, one that only intensifies as another memory fights its way to the front of his mind – the last time he'd seen her before everything had gone all to hell.

The last time he'd spoken to her; the last time he'd looked into her eyes.

The second time he'd felt the softness of her lips against his. The first real time.

(Maybe…maybe the last time.)

The pain that washes over him with that particular thought isn't physical at all, but God, how it rivals the constant agony he's been in for…he doesn't even know how long now. Doesn't know how long he's been in the hospital; doesn't know how long it's been since the only worry he'd had was whether or not Kensi would still want him as her partner after he'd kissed her. It might be days, could be weeks for all he knows.

(He knows it feels like an eternity since he's been this close to her, though.)

He strains his ears, letting her voice soothe him as she finishes her hushed conversation, her phone at her ear. "No, no. I – I think I'm going to stay, Callen," she says. There's silence for a moment; then a heavy sigh. "I know I won't sleep if I do leave."

After a moment, Callen must relent because Deeks hears Kensi sigh once more, murmuring a quiet "thanks." And then, with a "yeah, of course. I'll let you know," she disconnects the call, gently laying her phone on the bedside table.

"He's right, you know," Deeks manages to slur after a long moment, feeling exhaustion settle into him just from the force of concentration, the search for his voice. His eyelids are wildly heavy, but somehow he manages to pry them open to focus on his visitor, his partner.

It's already late, if the relative darkness is any indication; for once, though, he's glad for that because he's not sure his eyes could handle the bright light of day.

"Hey there," she says gently, a small smile playing at her lips as she meets his gaze. But even in his drugged state, Deeks can see that it's forced. It doesn't hide everything fighting for dominance in her eyes – fear, worry, concern…pity? He's not entirely sure what he sees; all he knows is that the contemplation makes his head hurt more than it already does.

(He's given up on the on-demand morphine drip; he could press the damn button all day long and the pain would never cease.)

He breathes her name, his voice rasping harshly in his dry mouth. Kensi's brow furrows worriedly; her touch leaves him then, her fingers instead reaching for a small pitcher and a plastic cup on the side table. Seconds later, she's guiding a straw to his lips, offering him chilled water that, after all he's been through, tastes and feels like heaven. He winces slightly as the cold sends a quick shock through his teeth, but really, that's nothing compared to everything else.

He swallows gratefully, closing his eyes as Kensi returns the cup to the table. "How you feeling?" she asks quietly then, brushing a fingertip over the top of his hand.

"Like I've been tortured." It's meant to be self-deprecating humor, but there's nothing at all amusing about it to either of them. He feels Kensi stiffen; he feels the tension in the air suddenly grow and quickly he regrets ever letting the words leave his lips. Sighing slightly, he tries to stretch in an effort to relieve the ache in his muscles; the action only seems to make the pain worse, though. "Sorry," he says, wincing.

Kensi's not entirely sure what to say to that. Biting her lip, she gently presses her fingers in between his, lacing them together atop the mattress as her mind races, searching for something, for anything to fill the silence. She's so unused to quiet between them that even a few seconds feels unbearable; mentally she chides herself for every time she'd ever tried to silence him. He'd come much too close to being silenced forever and the reality of that sends a shiver diving down the length of her spine. "I talked to the doctors," she says finally, gently squeezing his hand. "They say you – you should be okay. That there shouldn't – shouldn't be any long-lasting…damage."

She wants to say he's lucky. Lucky that they'd found him; lucky that he's still here.

But she's still haunted by the sight of him that day, unconscious, covered in blood, barely breathing.

She doesn't know what to say, truly.

So instead, she clears her throat, opting for something else entirely. "So, um, I think you'll be happy to know that I, uh…" She trails off, and there's a moment where Deeks catches the tiniest, almost shy smile upon her lips. It's gone in an instant though, and he's left wondering if he hadn't imagined it. "The Jello," she continues, reaching out and gently tapping another small cup on the bedside table. "I left it for you this time. Even though I was tempted to eat it – I mean, it's cherry this time."

"My favorite," he murmurs. He feels the corners of his lips curve in a slight smile (because when has his partner ever attempted to put him first when it comes to anything edible?) but the spark of pain in his mouth leaves him wincing, any appetite he might have had deserting him. "It's okay, you can have it," he adds quietly.

He's at the point now where he begins to lose the fight. The drugs are too much, and they band together with his own exhaustion in an effort to steal him away from consciousness. His eyes drop closed and he can feel himself begin to drift. He puts up as much fight as he can muster, though, because this is Kensi, and Deeks is almost certain that if he surrenders now, he'll wake and she'll be gone.

(The last thing he wants is for her to disappear again.)

Kensi bites her lip, her brow furrowed with worry. "You should at least try," she presses. "Just a bite or two. It might make you feel better."

He has tried, though. It nearly kills him to speak; to open his mouth and swallow, though, that's an entirely different realm of pain. "Maybe…maybe later," he says with a sigh. For a moment he's silent, merely listening once again as the monitors illustrate the reality of his life. He's still here; he's still alive. Somehow, he'd made it through, even when he'd consciously allowed himself to let go.

Even with his eyes closed, he can sense the worry radiating off of his partner, so he forces his lips into a small smile, searching once more for the humor that once came so easily to him. "But don't you dare eat it, Fern…"

She smirks slightly. "No promises there, Shaggy." Glancing down at her watch, Kensi's smirk becomes a frown – visiting hours ended quite some time ago. "But if you promise to get some rest, I think we might be able to work something out later.

She starts to stand from the bed, and that's when his hand finds hers. His fingers close around hers with an almost surprising amount of strength, stopping Kensi in her tracks. "Kens…" he whispers. He fights the weariness threatening to overtake him, at least, just for long enough to make a request – he can't think of anything that's been more important. He could die tonight, but right now, that's not important to him. There's only one thing that means something to him right now; only one thing that he'd die for tomorrow if he could just have it tonight. He wants – needs – her to stay.

Part of him is afraid to be alone.

The rest of him is afraid to be without her.

She reaches out to him, gently resting her palm on his stubbled cheek. The fight he's putting up right now is evident in his deep blue eyes; it's a sight that just breaks her heart, even more than it's already been broken. He's safe now, though; it's the mantra she keeps silently repeating to herself…though it doesn't make her feel any better. She won't feel better until he's back beside her again, her partner.

It terrifies her that, after everything he's been through, he might not come back.

Shaking that thought from her head, Kensi forces a smile, her fingertips gently stroking his cheek. "You should rest, Deeks," she whispers.

He will; he silently promises that he will – he just has one condition. For now, anyway. "You'll stay?"

Her answer is immediate. "I'll stay."

He wakes, disoriented, sometime a few hours later. He can't see in the darkness, but he can feel, and what he feels starts the panic deep inside of him. He can't move; something is weighing him down and at first, he's alarmed – frightened, even. The wires and monitors are one thing, but this? He's being held down and his first thought is that one of Sidorov's minions had found him. He's helpless, defenseless.

He hears the up-tempo of the heart monitor; feels the frozen grasp of fear as it wraps around him. Whatever it is, it's draped over his chest, over his shoulder, holding him down and rendering him motionless.

And then, he hears it.

Quiet, soft, just barely audible over the echo of his heartbeat in his ears.

He'd know it anywhere, though.

It's the sound he'd lain awake listening to for twenty-one nights, over a year ago (God, it's been that long?); the sound she'll deny to her dying breath, even if he does catch a hint of a blush in her cheeks whenever he teases her about it. Soft, piglet-like snores.

And then he realizes that it's her arm draped over his chest, her palm resting on his right shoulder. His left shoulder – his lips curve in a tiny smile as he realizes it – is currently her pillow, her dark tresses tickling his throat.

For the first time since this ordeal had begun, Deeks feels safe.

(When he awakens from the haze alone a few days later, he's certain it'd been a dream.)

His soul doesn't truly awaken again until he opens his door late one night to find her on the other side. No matter the physical hell or the personal, emotional hell he's gone through, she's still the most beautiful sight he's ever seen and no matter how badly he wants to shut the door and send her away, he can't. He can't, because as much as he doesn't want her to see him like this, he can't imagine not seeing her.

He thinks that, no matter how long he hides, there will always be that part of him that needs her.

So he steps silently aside, letting her in and trying not to flinch when her fingers ghost just gently along his forearm. He can't hide it though, and she quickly withdraws, her gaze sheepish. "Sorry," she murmurs.

He shakes his head, but can't find his words; it's ridiculous how such a fleeting touch leaves behind such fiery sparks. It does, though, and it's the most sensation he's felt in a long time – the most other than pain, of course.

He'd begun to wonder if he'd ever feel anything but pain again.

She's the first to speak and for that Deeks is glad, because he can't find his voice. There are a million different thoughts swimming through his head right now, but he's not entirely sure where to start. There are so many unanswered questions between them right now; so many shades of grey that he's not sure he'll ever know strictly black and white again. Her eyes avoid his as she speaks, her voice trailing off into nothing halfway through. "I – I wanted to come by sooner, but…"

Nervously she tucks her hair behind her ears, biting at her lip. This feeling of utter apprehension that falls over her…it's just completely unfamiliar to her; she's just not sure what she's supposed to say or do.

She really had wanted to come by sooner – Kensi's wanted to come by every damn day. There hasn't been a single moment of his absence that he hasn't crossed her mind – at work, in the field, sitting in traffic…God, it's not just her partner that's been missing, it's an entire part of her life. He's an entire part of her life and without him, an inescapable void had been left behind, one she couldn't fill with reality tv or junk food or all the after-action reports she'd been putting off for quite some time.

Without him, without her partner across the bullpen from her every day…Kensi had felt almost lost.

But how can she possibly put that into words? She'd tried, but now that she's actually standing in his living room, she can't figure out how to tell him just how many times she's found herself in her car, wanting so badly to make the short drive to him but unable to turn the key in the ignition, or how many times she's stared at his name in her contact list, but found herself unable to press the button that would connect her to him.

She'd been scared.

No.

She'd been terrified.

And it's something she hates herself for, because all this time, he's been right here, all alone, no one but Monty by his side. Her eyes drift to the corner, meeting the sad gaze of her partner's pup, his head resting on his paws in his bed – it's almost as if even Deeks' long-term companion has given up on him.

She doesn't really know what to say to him so she opts for a simple question, though even to her own ears it sounds rather lame. "So…how are you?"

He shrugs, taking a seat on the couch. "I've been…" He hesitates, and Kensi can't recall a time when he'd ever looked more exhausted. Before everything had shifted between them, she would have been right there next to him on the couch.

Now, though, she's not sure where she belongs.

So she waits, silently, until he sighs, shaking his head. "I don't…really know what answer you want to that question," Deeks says finally.

His voice is almost foreign, completely devoid of emotion. And that's something that just kills her, because the Marty Deeks she knows…well, she misses him. She misses him terribly. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't want the actual answer," Kensi replies softly, a worried frown on her lips.

"Do you really, though?" Deeks presses, lifting a hand to his weary eyes. "Because we could just keep this simple – I can say I'm fine and you can just…you know. Go. I wouldn't want to keep you from more important things."

Kensi flinches; she can't deny that she's a bit shocked at his words. Shocked, and hurt. She forces herself to shrug it off, though, because on some level, she guesses she deserves it a bit. "You know we don't do fine," she points out, forcing her feet to carry her the few steps to the couch. Rather than sit next to him, though, Kensi simply perches on the arm of the couch, leaving a safe amount of open space between them.

"Maybe we don't, but we sure do a lot of pretending, don't we?" To that, Kensi has no reply – there's no use in denying it, really. For a long moment, there's nothing but the steady ticking of the clock to break the silence, and she's debating whether or not she should have come tonight (Deeks doesn't seem to want her here, which hurts far more than it should, if she's honest) when he leans back, resting his head against the back of the couch with a heavy sigh. "Fine. You want to know how I've been? Well…I'm alive. That's about as good as it gets – and some days, there's not really any good in that. I can't remember the last time I even really slept. Everything hurts and my shrink thinks I'm all kinds of screwed up and whenever I look at myself in the mirror, I believe it too." He pauses for a breath, turning his blue eyes to Kensi for the first time. "So that's how I've been. That the answer you wanted?"

She hates what she sees in her partner's eyes. Shadows and so much pain, none of the sparkle that had always put a bit of a flutter in her belly. "Of course not, Deeks," she answers quietly, wishing desperately that she knew how to reach out to him.

He scoffs. "Then you should have let me lie."

"Deeks…" This is not going how she'd envisioned at all.

"You know, out of everybody, you're the only one who hasn't come to see me," he points out, raking a hand through his hair. "Hetty's always checking up on me. Callen stopped by with pizza and beer one night." It'd been the least stressful of all of his guests' visits, because Callen, unlike everyone else, hadn't insisted that they talk. It had been…odd, because Deeks had never really considered he and Callen to be friends. But at the same time, he'd appreciated the quiet company. "And you know what? Even Sam came by. But you? Where- where were you? Where was my partner?"

Suddenly, it's too much for him – the pain, the exhaustion, her proximity to him. The energy is buzzing within him; he has to move. Summoning his strength, he tears himself to his feet, fighting the sudden spell of dizziness as he puts the space back between them. "The only one I wanted to see was you. And you couldn't be bothered to even send a damn text."

"It's not like that," Kensi defends.

"Yeah? Then what is it like?" Deeks questions, a dull ache beginning in his temples. "

She doesn't answer that. "You could have called me. I would have been here in –"

"I'm the one who could have called?" He looks to her, incredulity in his ocean blues. "I took another bullet. I had my teeth drilled. I sat there through hours of torture. I nearly died, Kensi. And I'm the one who should have called?"

"Deeks."

"I was there when everyone else thought you were a fugitive, a murderer. I was there, pulling you through that maze of lasers. I was always there at your door when – when things happened or you had a bad day or a bad case. I was always there."

"I didn't ask you to be," Kensi retorts.

"I didn't wait for you to ask," Deeks shoots back. "I didn't wait. I was just there. So where were you when I needed you?" The words scald him, almost as much as the very image of her flinching before him. "I didn't need Callen or Sam or Hetty. I didn't need Eric and his XBox. I didn't need Nell and her soups, her casseroles, everything else she was bringing by. What I did need was my partner, Kens. These last few months have been hell and I just - I – I needed you." He pauses, hating himself for the way his throat constricts with emotion. "You know, you're always so scared of getting close to people and then having them abandon you. But that's exactly what you did to me."

"I wanted to come by," Kensi defends, her voice shaking slightly as she stands again from the couch. "I wanted to."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want any of this." He turns his back to her, placing his palm against the wall to steady himself. He's starting to shake, a combination of anger and despair and exhaustion, mixed with the searing pain of heartache because the one person he's wanted to see for so long is finally here and God, she's a sight for sore eyes, but at the same time, he is angry at her. More than that, though, he thinks he's angry at himself.

He's angry at himself for ever believing that he might mean the same to her as she does to him. "But it's okay though, because I guess in the end we both got what we wanted, right?" he asks bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut. "You never really wanted me as a partner, and me, well, I never signed up for any of this anyway."

She approaches him. "None of that is true and you know it," she says, a tremble in her voice.

"I didn't sign up for this," he repeats. "That is true. I was a cop, Kensi. And – and maybe nobody really liked me, but I was damn good at my job. I never wanted all this. I never wanted NCIS. I never wanted people at the LAPD to look at me like I suddenly thought I was too good to be one of them; I never wanted to come in each day and face whatever new and supposedly clever insult Sam had to throw at me. I never wanted to be a part of a team that I have never really belonged to. I've gone through hell since Hetty recruited me and for what? All I have to show for it is pain that never goes away and nightmares I can't escape from."

He stops for a breath, resting his forehead against the wall now; he feels Kensi lay a hand on his arm, and he wants to push her away, but he can't find the strength for that. All his strength is going toward staying on his feet right now. "I'm not one of you," he continues, his voice slowly losing its edge. "I really don't belong here and every single one of you…it feels like you all go out of your way to show that. Sam and his insults. Callen automatically siding with him because that's just what they do. And you…you not even caring enough to even text me."

"Deeks, please…"

"I almost broke, Kens," he admits. "I wanted to give Michelle up. I wanted to break down and give them everything just for the slight hope that the pain would stop. That they would stop. But I knew that if I gave her up…" he hesitates, and Kensi can feel his body shudder beneath her touch. "I knew that you were out there somewhere too. You told me that you had to stay with Michelle, and then you left. And I knew that, if I broke down and you ended up paying for it…"

It's then that his knees give out on him; slowly, he starts to sink to the floor. "Deeks," Kensi whispers, steadying him as much as she can as she drops with him, her knees meeting the carpet. Her heart breaks as a strangled sob is wrenched from his throat. "Marty…"

He fights the urge to bite the inside of his cheek – he craves the subtle flash of pain, but not the fiery throb that will resonate in his teeth for hours. "I didn't want this," he repeats. "I didn't."

I never asked for NCIS.

I never asked for all of this pain.

I never asked to fall for my partner.

She tries to draw him near, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, but Deeks fights, stiffening at the contact. "You should – you should go," he bites out, emotion in every word. "Just – just go."

"No," she answers resolutely. "I'm not leaving."

"Kens…"

"No."

He tries to push her away, but right now, she's stronger. It's not that he wants her to go, but honestly…he doesn't want her to see him like this. He doesn't want her to see him break down. "You – you didn't give a damn about me before, so why bother now?"

"Because I did leave you, okay?" she all but shouts, her own heart pounding against her chest. "Because I ran away, and you – you – look what happened. That's why I'm not leaving now, because…" She shakes her head, unable to vocalize the rest. "You – you kissed me, and I ran. I left my partner and look what happened."

"You had to stay with Michelle."

"I should have stayed with you." Her voice breaks as her palms find his scruffy cheeks, gently tilting his head to meet her gaze; she feels her heart shatter as she sees just how reddened his eyes are. "I'm not making that mistake again, Deeks. I'm not."

"You told me that already," he whispers, wishing he could look away. "In the hospital. You – you said you would stay. And then…" He swallows hard, watching as Kensi bites her lip. "Then I woke up, and you were gone. You – you left. Why?"

"Because I was scared, okay?" she admits quietly, her voice wavering. "Because I was scared that I was going to fall asleep…and that you wouldn't be there when I woke up. I was scared that you were going to…break your promise. And I…"

Her voice abandons her, just as she had unintentionally abandoned him months ago; just as she'd been afraid that he would abandon her through no fault of his own. She stutters slightly, trying to convey in her gaze everything she wants and needs to say because God, there's so much that she does need to say to him – about why she hasn't been there, why she left him in the hospital, why she'd run away so quickly after he'd kissed her months ago (even now, she shivers thinking about it). She'd been speechless then, utterly shocked. And now, as she stares into those same ocean eyes, darkened now with the weight of all he's gone through, she feels something break inside of her.

He'd nearly died.

She'd almost lost him.

And with that realization, their roles reverse. Kensi's the one with her palms on his cheeks, and he's the one stunned as she leans in, kissing him soundly on the mouth.

Apparently, it's the best way either of them can communicate.

But this time, rather than just one line, it's an entire conversation told from both sides.

And it's probably the most honest one they've ever had.

She's mindful of the injuries he'd sustained a few months back; the last thing she wants to do is cause him any more pain. But then he's kissing her back, a hand at the back of her neck and it becomes hard to think of anything else but that. And suddenly, she finds she can't quite get enough of him. Their first kiss, undercover and well over a year ago, had started a tiny spark deep in her soul; the second kiss, just months ago and so completely them, had turned that spark into a flame.

Now, it's a full-blown wildfire, and even though in the back of her mind she knows that this wasn't supposed to happen tonight, Kensi can't extinguish it. She'll never admit aloud to the insecurity, but it's part of why she'd neglected to visit him – he'd kissed her, and she'd run away, leaving him to be trapped and tortured, and she'd known she couldn't handle it if he blamed her. She'd known she couldn't handle it if she'd lost her partner for good.

But she'd never stopped thinking about it. About him, about his kiss. The taste of his lips on hers, the tickle of his scruff along her skin; the challenge in his blue eyes as he'd looked into hers, the quip "how's that for communication?" falling so easily from those lips. He'd stunned her, and she'd wanted more.

She's dizzied as the kiss deepens, as his mouth melds with hers over and over again and she's not entirely sure if the moisture on her cheeks is from her eyes or his. It's not really something she can give much thought to at the moment though, because there's really only one repetitive thought rushing through her head: you almost lost this forever.

A soft whimper reaches his ears, and there's a moment where he's almost certain that this has to be a dream. But then again, it can't be a dream because, well, he hasn't had any good ones at all lately and this…it's so much more than good. For the first time in months, the pain doesn't matter; the memories don't matter. Nothing else matters but the press of her mouth against his and the ache of longing deep in his chest.

When she'd disappeared from his hospital room, Deeks had virtually written their thing out of the story. He'd felt the sting of heartbreak on top of all the other agony – he knows Kensi. When she runs, that's the end. When she ignores something, that's it. So he'd been certain that the chapter of them that had included their kiss and his promise and sunshine and gunpowder had been closed forever.

But now, it's open again, being rewritten as they kiss and this time, he thinks it would take death itself to pry the proverbial pen out of his hands. He's wanted this, wanted her for so long that it's beyond his power now to stop this, because the idea that this is all her, that she's the one who'd kissed him this time, that she maybe wants him as much as he wants her, that maybe she'd been just as scared of losing him as he'd always been of losing her…he can't lock those feelings away for the sake of their partnership.

And really, if their partnership is going to be marred by this, well, it would have been marred a long time ago…back when he first realized his feelings for her were far deeper than just superficial lust, back when he first realized that he's not sure he could live without her in his life.

(And the past few months are just proof of how incredibly hard it's been to be without her.)

It's then that she pauses the kiss, just for one moment. It's as if they share the same thoughts right now, because when she whispers a breathy confession, her lips brushing his with the words, Deeks can't deny that it's the truth for him as well. "I thought I was going to lose you, and I – I can't. I can't lose you."

All of the words he wishes he could utter in return…they're conveyed as his lips find hers again.

-:-

Her palm rests atop the newest bullet scar in his chest and for the first time in a long time, as he lays in bed with his gaze to the ceiling, Deeks doesn't feel any pain. For the first time in a long time, the tiredness he feels isn't exhaustion from battling his demons all day and for that, he's grateful. He feels whole again; a tiny smile tugs at his lips as he realizes just how incredibly clichéd that sounds.

He sighs, and Kensi stirs next to him, carefully resting her head on his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he breathes, musing on the fact that this time, it's not entirely a lie. He won't be good for quite some time – he knows that. There are still tons of hurdles to get through – clearing psych, coming back to work, getting cleared to return to the field. Beyond all of that, though tonight he's found a temporary respite, it's just that – temporary. Nightmares and pain don't just magically disappear, and Deeks shudders, dreading the night when they return to him in full force.

He's not alone now, though. And he chooses to believe that having Kensi next to him in his bed, her body wrapped in one of his old LAPD t-shirts means that maybe, just maybe, she won't run this time.

(God, he hopes not.)

"I didn't know what to do for you," she whispers suddenly, almost as if reading his very thoughts. "That – that's why I wasn't there. I couldn't be." It was selfish of her, and Kensi closes her eyes in shame. He'd had a point before – he has always been there for her. And now, he'd needed her, and she'd disappeared. Some partner you are, she thinks miserably. "I just…I kept thinking about…about Jack. I kept thinking about how I wasn't enough for him."

Her voice wavers, and Deeks feels his heart clench for her. "Kens…"

"I wasn't," she continues. "When he needed me, I gave up everything so that I could be there for him, and it still wasn't enough. I couldn't help him. And…he left. He disappeared, and to this day, I still don't know if he's even alive out there somewhere. I was scared of the same thing happening to you." She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is no more than a whisper. "I couldn't lose you like that. I – I couldn't live with the idea that you were…that me being there would make it all worse for you."

"I don't think anything could have been worse than just…being alone." Being abandoned.

Her eyes sting, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. "I'm sorry, God I'm sorry…"

He turns his head, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair. "Kens…"

"I was so scared," she whimpers quietly, her body trembling. It's then that Deeks can no longer just lie there, simply listening. He gathers the strength to shift onto his side, facing her and drawing her fully into his embrace. He nuzzles into her hair as she clutches to him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "You know, when I – when we found you, you…"

Her throat closes up on her then, and she tries to swallow, fighting the wave of emotion. That's one thing she'll never, ever forget - the paralyzing fear that had gripped her as she searched for any signs of life in her unconscious partner. The sight of him, bound harshly to a chair and covered in blood, his blood, his head slumped heavily over his chest…it's a sight Kensi knows she'll never be able to scrape from her memory, no matter how long she lives.

A shudder works its way violently through her body. "We didn't – I thought – we didn't think you were going to make it," she finishes quietly. "I got you free but – but I couldn't…wake you up."

That hadn't even been the most frightening part of it all. At least, when she'd been with him, crying out his name, shaking him, trying everything to get those ocean eyes she loves so much to open again…at least, then, she'd been able to do something.

The horror had begun as the paramedics had closed the ambulance doors, leaving her unsteady on her feet as they'd quickly sped away, lights and sirens carrying her partner away, leaving nothing but blood-tinged dust behind.

"They wouldn't let me go with you – the paramedics said there wasn't room, and Granger said he needed me there. I couldn't go. I – I was so scared that when they took you away, that was the last time I was ever going to see you. And all could think was that…you promised."

"I kept it," he murmurs into her hair. "I kept it for you."

And that's when Kensi Blye breaks in his arms.

(He thinks now they can try to put each other back together.)

That night, there are no nightmares.

And when he wakes to find her nuzzling against him as she sleeps, an arm draped protectively over his chest, Deeks feels himself finally begin to heal.

He knows he's got a hell of a long road left to travel.

But at the end of it, he hopes his soul will be a little less fragmented.

Maybe one day, he'll even be whole again.