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It had been a really quiet week, there were no cases just the monotony of paperwork and extra time in the gym just to get rid of some of my pent-up energy. I have never been one to sit still well, I can if I have to but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I walk into the bullpen expecting more of the same, no case, paperwork that seems to multiply when I am not watching it, and one too many sessions in the gym just to avoid driving Callen nuts with my fidgeting. But today was different, we caught an open and shut case and spent most of the day in the boat shed with the suspect, and by the time everything was wrapped up I was drained. Callen drove us both back to OPs, he tried to start a conversation but I couldn’t even tell you what it was about if I tried.
I make my way into the office and towards my desk on autopilot, today’s paperwork is done so I don’t even bother to sit down– it’s past quitting time anyway, so I pack up my stuff and start to walk out of the bullpen– past Callen, with one goal in mind, to make it to the beach and watch the waves as the sun sets. I’m too distracted to surf safely so listening to the waves as I clear my head is the next best thing.
“Deeks, are you ok?” Callen asks, grabbing my wrist to stop me before I can slide past him and out of the bullpen. It's just been the two of us this week, Sam has been out since he got shot a week ago and Kensi has been in Afghanistan for the past month.
I don't mind working with Callen, I just hate that he is suddenly eerily perceptive of my mood. He typically leaves it to Kensi to pry it out of me, but I have apparently worried him enough that he felt the need to check on me. I suppress the desire to sigh in agitation– not at the man in front of me but at myself for being unable to keep myself in check and responding as politely and truthfully as possible without giving him another reason to worry.
“I'm fine,” I say with a shrug, “It’s nothing a few hours on the beach and in the waves won't fix.” It’s not a lie, being out in the sand and water has always been therapeutic, I am just not sure if that is enough to make everything feel right within the world again.
Callen takes his time assessing me before he lets go, only after I reassure him, twice, that I will call if I need anything. It's weird having Callen show that he cares this way. I'm used to the odd food or drink run he will do for the team, the occasional “you did good today Deeks” paired with a clap on the shoulder that always seems to last longer than it would if he were clapping Sam on the shoulder– but who am I to complain, it’s nice feeling like someone cares–especially after the week we have had.
Today's case was rough for both of us, cases involving children always sting a little more but this case might as well have been a rewritten case file of my early childhood. There is a paper trail indicating that this little boy had been abused by his father for years and nobody dared to intervene. The little boy had finally had enough and killed his father when he was beating on his mother who had just given birth a week before. Thankfully the little boy won’t be charged and he can live his life without fearing the man who should have protected him.
This case file brought back memories I had fought so hard to forget. The late nights when I would plead with him to stop– to stop hurting me, to leave my mom alone. I remembered nights I would hide in my room or at Ray’s trying to escape my father's drunken wrath. The times I would beg my mom to just leave him, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been easy but it would have been much better than staying.
I cannot recall a time in my childhood when I wasn't afraid of my father. I still remember the relief that flooded my system when I was told by Hetty that my father was dead– and the shame that quickly followed. My inner child still wants to believe that the man could have changed, that maybe–just maybe he would change if he quit drinking, maybe he would apologize for all he had done wrong, that he would want to fix our relationship.
It's so very easy to get distracted by that longing for a better father–for my father to simply be better, that it almost becomes too easy to ignore everything I have learned– all the blatant signs of escalation are there… logically I know my mom and I were much closer to being just another name and face to add to the statistics than it was to believe that a man like Brandle would change. Yet that little flicker of hope existed until I learned of his death.
Before I knew it I had arrived at the beach, I barely remember getting in my car and making the trip to this section of the beach, maybe I am a little more out of sorts than I thought– not enough to ask for help, I don’t need anything after all. I just need some time to untangle my complicated feelings about my father and by then I should hopefully be able to hide behind my happy-go-lucky mask again. Climbing out of my car I pop the trunk to pull out some sandals to change into and a beach blanket before heading down to be within arm's reach of the tide.
I sit there with my knees pulled up to my chest, arms wrapped around my legs, watching the waves in the distance wondering what my life would have been like had circumstances been different. If my father were a different man would that have impacted my career choice? Would I have had siblings? How different would my life have been if I didn’t have to shoot my father– if someone or anyone had stepped in at any moment, it’s not like the abuse was well hidden after all. It’s not like I really have answers for any of these questions– I cannot seek out a parallel universe to give me the answers to the questions that haunt me after cases like this one, but it never seems to stop me from asking them, from wanting to get lost in a world where I was always loved and cherished instead of being hated for simply being a typical child.
My thoughts are interrupted by purposefully loud shuffling that could only be coming from one person. “Hey Callen,” I say with a small smile as I look up at him and take in the take-out bag from my favorite food truck with far more food than he would have bought for himself.
“I brought dinner,” Callen states as he sits beside me on the blanket.
“You didn’t have to,” I say, truthfully I am grateful that he found me, I may not be eager to talk about why I am so unsettled, but he has most likely read my file and has some clue about the mess in my head at this moment.
“I did, you might want to tell me that you are fine but your body language is telling me another story. I don’t expect you to talk about it with me unless you want to but it’s my responsibility to make sure my people are ok.” Callen explains while unpacking the food handing me my favorite fish tacos and a bottle of water. I murmur my thanks before we eat in comfortable silence. I contemplate talking about my complicated feelings about my father as I eat knowing if anyone on our team is going to understand complicated feelings about family Callen is most likely to get it.
I take a deep breath before I dare to ask “Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you were raised by loving and caring parents versus being placed in the system so young?” It’s more intrusive than I would normally allow myself to ask but Callen doesn’t seem to mind thankfully.
“I do– sometimes. It’s easy to get lost in the fantasy about what a ‘normal’ childhood could have done for me. The odds of me being an agent still seem high considering my mother worked as one. But I think my biggest question is about my sister ya know? I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have actually met her and not some woman who assumed her name after her death but who knows if meeting her would have made any difference.” Callen says wistfully.
I nod, not knowing what to say– without them sounding like empty platitudes and I am certain that Callen wouldn’t want them so I decided to share too, no better way to get closer to your boss than pouring your heart out I suppose. “I didn’t even know that my father had died until I was shot within my first year of working for NCIS. There was this overwhelming sense of relief knowing that he could never come back and hurt my mother or myself, though that relief was quickly replaced with guilt for feeling that way. Of course, I feel confident in my ability to fight back now if he were still alive and dared to try, but I shouldn’t have ever had to worry about defending myself from my father.”
I don’t look at Callen the entire time I speak, it’s easier to talk to the waves– they can’t tell me whether I am right or wrong they just take the words back with the receding tide as I work out what I need to. The waves are incapable of placating me, incapable of telling me that “maybe my father didn’t mean all the hateful things he has said. But they are also incapable of empathizing, giving advice, or providing physical comfort– if I were the type of person to seek that out on days like these, though I suppose that's the problem with talking to a body of water rather than a person.
“I might not be Nate but I am certain your relief was more than justified,” Callen states with so much confidence that it is almost easier to believe it coming from him even when several other people have told me the same thing.
“Try telling that to the six-year-old in me who still holds hope that Brandle would have changed. Adult me knows better but that voice of my inner broken child gets loud in the back of my head sometimes, especially after cases so eerily similar to my own childhood.” I respond a little more crestfallen than I wanted to, normally I can keep it together enough to not sound so emotional about my childhood. I fought through it with no support so why is it that I want it now?
“Maybe I just need to tell you more often,” Callen suggests casually as he leans back, propping himself on his elbows to look up at the stars that we can finally see.
“Just how does a man of so few words plan to do that exactly?” I can’t help but ask, it’s a little more sarcastic than I meant for it to be but it doesn’t seem to phase the man beside me as he turns to look at me.
“I am sure I could think of more than a few ways to get the message across– that’s excluding the possibility of me saying it in various languages of course,” he explains with his crooked half smile that always does something to me no matter how much I try to ignore my attraction to him. Unfortunately, the attraction I feel for him only keeps growing, I had hoped that it would fizzle out about three years ago but apparently, I am destined to be attracted to my very male and very straight boss.
“Well–” I stop midsentence unsure if I wanted to half-heartedly accept or turn down his offer immediately. Do I think Callen could help me? He could to some degree but I really should start seeing that therapist friend of Nate’s while he is gone. But this is the first time that he has ever offered out a helping hand on a personal level– he willingly opened up to me, it would be foolish to turn him down right? So what if my crush keeps growing, that's gonna happen while working alongside him anyway.
My uncertainty must be clear on my face because Callen sits up and places a hand on my thigh, squeezing gently before he speaks. “You know, I had some shitty foster parents, and while it's not the same I still remember the relief I felt when I finally realized that Hetty wasn’t going to throw me out on my ass for acting out, I knew that my basic needs would be met and that I wouldn’t have to worry about having a roof over my head. Up until that point, I was prepared to be homeless because there was no way they were going to place me in yet another group home, but instead, she just showed me a never-ending amount of patience that I am still thankful for. While I cannot imagine what it is like to experience abuse at the hand of a parent, some of my foster dads were physically abusive but I always rationalized it the same way they did, I wasn’t one of theirs so they didn’t have to keep me safe or provide for me.”
“I’m sorry–” I say eventually, it’s not enough– it doesn’t even cover all the points he made but my brain is too overwhelmed to come up with a better answer at this moment.
After a beat, when Callen realizes I am not going to finish that thought he incredulously asks “What are you sorry for?”
“My childhood– our childhoods,” I emphasize ‘our’ with a gentle shoulder bump before I continue, “should have been much different. I’m sorry that you get it, I honestly hate that you get it. I don’t like thinking about a young G Callen dealing with similar bullshit that the child version of me experienced.” I say with a small shrug as I find myself subconsciously leaning back into Callen’s warmth, the damp air causing me to ever so slightly shiver in my short-sleeved tee.
“Well I am proud of little Marty Deeks for doing what he had to to save himself and his mother,” Callen says pulling back just far enough to remove his leather jacket before placing it on my shoulders.
“I’m not cold,” I exclaim while making no effort to remove it from my shoulder, in fact– to add emphasis to my point much like a child might– I actually slip my arms into the sleeves while watching Callen smirk out of the corner of my eye.
“Of course, you're not,” Callen agrees while snaking an arm around my waist and easily tugging me closer to his body. It should feel weird–being so close to the older man but it feels so natural, almost like I was always supposed to end up with the arm of G Callen wrapped around my waist. I allow myself to lean in closer, determined to enjoy whatever this is for as long as he will allow me.
“How did you know where to find me?” I finally ask after sitting in comfortable silence for a while, I thought of it when he first arrived but my thoughts were too muddled for it to be a priority to ask at the time, it’s G Callen– lead-agent-super-spy-extraordinaire, for all the more I know he has a hidden gadget that gives him GPS access to everything we own making it easier to keep an eye on each of us.
“I followed you out here once, I came by to see how you were doing after you were shot in that convenience store but you were pulling out of your parking lot so I followed, and watched you play with Monty for a moment before I took off. You seemed to be in a good mood and that was enough for me– plus I saw Eric and Nell pull into the lot and knew you were in good hands.”
“You're telling me lead-agent-super-spy-extraordinaire doesn’t have a hidden gadget that gives you our GPS coordinates at all times?” I ask turning my head to face the man in question, finding that by doing so our faces are a hairsbreadth away. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss those currently smirking lips– boy do I want to. When I look into those stormy blue eyes I have always adored I find them filled with mischief and amusement– it is abundantly clear that I have been caught staring at his lips. I should feel anxious about being caught but instead, I find my eyes darting back to his lips, I can’t help it I am so close to finally getting to taste those lips that I have fantasized about for far too long.
I am caught off guard by Callen caressing my chin with his thumb and two fingers– redirecting my line of sight and just barely tilting my head to the side. “You could have just asked for a kiss Marty.” Callen murmurs as he moves his face just the slightest bit closer but refuses to close the gap, almost like he is waiting for my smart ass to say something.
“G–” I breathe out, unsure what to say– what to ask, is there anything to ask? But it doesn’t matter anymore because G closes that minuscule distance between our lips and nothing else matters. Everything else around us is frozen in time as he kisses me so tenderly while absentmindedly running his thumb back and forth against my stubble. He surprises me yet again by nipping my bottom lip, causing me to moan, before he pulls back much to my dismay.
“Let’s continue this at your place shall we?” Callen says as he stands up offering me a hand up as well.
“Awfully presumptuous aren’t you,” I say before I press a kiss on his cheek.
“We could go to mine but I am certain you will complain about the lack of furniture,” G explains while tossing out the dinner trash while I fold up my beach blanket.
“Then you should buy furniture,” I state sassily turning to face G. I am almost surprised to find him right there, face to face, again. I didn’t hear him sneak up on me while I was doing my best to shake out the blanket, knowing him he purposefully made no noises– so very superspy of him.
He crowds my space, not that I care, and threads a hand through my hair while leaning in to whisper into my ear “Why buy furniture when you can furnish it with all of your things–” he pauses gently nipping the lobe of my ear then says “take me home Marty.”