This story was written some time ago during a very bad time. I had thought that writing would help me deal with what was happening, but as soon as I finished this story, I was angry I had written it and tucked it away in a folder to be forgotten. I found it recently, read over it and thought "That's a mess," and put it back in the folder to revisit later on. However, the more I thought about how I felt during that time, and what life was like around me, the more I felt that the structure of this story pretty accurately sums it all up. So, instead of rewriting this into a more pleasant format, I simply went over it, corrected any spelling mistakes I could find, and decided to post it. Basically, when something bad happens in your life, things fall out of sync. You never have all the information, you're confused, scared, and can't think straight. Then there's the pesky problem of other responsibilities that can't be put on hold.

Also, I've never really written anything that was pure whump. I've read countless whump stories, just never felt like writing one where the act of being hurt was the main point of the story.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Sam's daughter goes through phases. Dora the Explorer, Princesses, Disney—no one lasting longer than the next. He remembers reading her Alice in Wonderland, her whole world seeming to revolve around the story, so much so that she would quote the cartoon, bare feet running across carpeted floors squealing, "I'm late, I'm late."

He had never been able to answer why a raven is like a writing desk, or why the flowers aren't very nice, but he was able to answer one question. "What does that mean?" she had asked, stopping her father mid sentence, ruining the cadence of the poem.

"What does what mean?" Sam had questioned back, not sure which part his little girl was referring to.

In a tone much too old for a child, she had questioned the Walrus' intent, wondered aloud about why he'd be talking about Cabbages and Kings. Sam had sat for a moment, both baffled and proud of his baby's insight, her ability to see that what the Walrus was doing was wrong. And then he told her the truth.

"He's distracting them," he had admitted, suddenly hating the book. "Making them think of something else so they don't realize what's happening."

It's been a few years since Alice had ruled his household, but the memory still remains, the concept behind the Walrus' actions still present in his mind.

Sam's thinking about that Walrus now, about how he had lied to the oysters, distracting them from the truth. A game of smoke and mirrors.

His hands are holding up Deeks' head, his fingers wrapping around the back of the Detective's neck, blood caking in his nail beds.

The entire time he's muttering reassurances, telling Deeks that everything's going to be okay, that it's not that bad. Sam reminds him not to move as he risks a glance to Callen's worried face, regrets looking when he sees Kensi's panic stricken one.

"You're gonna be okay, Deeks," Sam assures everybody, knowing full well that he's the Walrus in this scenario.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Deeks knows things are bad. He doesn't know what happened exactly, but he's aware enough to know that 'good' is not the word he would use to define the situation. He's lying on his side, everything from his left hip to his shoulder painfully pressed against the ground. His vision keeps swimming, and he can't focus on anything other than the dusty carpet two inches from his nose.

He knows he's panting, that his breath is coming out in quick, uneven gasps because he can see the dust on the carpet move with each exhale.

He can hear a variety of noises, the most pressing being the ringing in his ears that seems to be originating from within the confines of his skull. Another sound that, in a way, seems to be just as pressing is the roar of an engine, deep and stunted, a choking rumble. There are more sounds: people screaming and crying, the whine of a building settling into place that, were Deeks aware enough to focus, would remind him of an old haunted house creaking beneath an unknown strain.

There's the sound of his name, urgent and desperate in volume. Deeks blinks a few times, his eyes burning as the tears try to wash away the burn of debris. And then he's no longer alone. He feels hands on his legs, on his hips. Sam appears out of nowhere, his face inches away from Deeks', blocking the view of the dirty carpet.

"Hey man, look at me," Sam orders, lying down on his side to mirror Deeks, his left hand rising to rest against Deeks' shoulder. "You with me?"

Deeks blinks again, and gives what he intends to be a cocky "uh-huh," but judging by the line of worry forming between Sam's eyes, it probably comes out sounding anything but.

"Try not to move," Sam says again, moving his hand to Deeks' neck, "We're gonna get you outta here."

And it suddenly dawns on Deeks that he has no idea where here is.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Callen likes to think that the word 'stoic' can easily be used to describe him, that he responds well in a crisis. As he holds Deeks' hips in place, trying to keep the man from turning over, from causing any more damage, Callen begins to reconsider his affinity for the word, wondering if it would really apply in this particular situation.

The huge Mack truck is only a few feet away, its hood being the only thing stopping the remainder of the room's ceiling from crashing down on Deeks and Sam's prone forms. Callen can see the driver slumped against the steering wheel, the bald spot barely visible behind the debris and cracks covering the windshield.

They had been on the second floor when it happened, not too high of a fall. Then again, looking at Deeks, maybe it was.

In reality, its only been less than five minutes since the truck barreled through the first floor of the Coyote Inn, but so much has changed since then, the Before and After so starkly different that Callen really can't recognize it as being in the same day, let alone such a short time frame.

He hears Kensi talking to Eric on the phone, the distress clear in each and every word she speaks. Gone is the tough-as-nails Kensi Blye. Callen knows seeing your partner disappear through the floor can be traumatizing, but he's pretty sure the bump Kensi took to her head isn't helping her nerves.

Maybe he hit his head, too. Maybe that's why he can feel his heart beating in his throat, why he's suddenly overcome with a strong sense of helplessness as he looks at the ruins of the motel rooms around him, both on this floor and the one above.

Deeks had been standing near the window, clear on the other side of the room. He had been laughing, brushing off whatever it was Sam and Callen had verbally tossed his way. But then the rev of the engine could be heard, the shout for someone outside to watch out, and then the building shook.

Callen remembers falling into the wall behind him, remembers the way the lights flickered and the floor tilted. And then Deeks was gone, falling with the large window, both disappearing from view, the site of the truck's trailer jack-knifing into the building the last thing Callen remembers seeing before burying his head beneath his arms for protection.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

There's a chaos that's associated with disasters, whether they be small or large. One would think the chaos would be directly proportional to the event, but that's a load of bull. Kensi's willing to bet that people are programmed with only two degrees of panic, kind of like a TV with only two volumes. Calm and Freaked-the-Fuck-Out.

She sees Callen and Sam each pulling themselves off the floor, relief flooding through her until realization hits. Someone's missing. Despite her years of training, she feels herself steadily watching Calm disappear in the rearview mirror.

"Deeks!" She's on her hands and knees, scrambling to get to the spot where her partner had just been. She hits her elbow on a lamp that's found its way to the floor, the cord being the only thing keeping it from rolling towards the large gap where the wall used to be.

Suddenly, she's being pulled back. She tries to fight against the hands wrapped around her waist, tries to ignore the urgent voice yelling in her ear, but Sam's persistent.

"Kensi! We'll get him."

She lets herself relax a little, at least to the point that she's no longer fighting Sam, no longer stupidly trying to take a nose dive and follow her partner to the first floor.

"We'll get him," Sam says again, a little more calmly now, his tone screaming Reassurance with a hint of control.

Callen grabs her elbow and helps her up. She flinches as his hand touches a tender spot on the back of her head. "We gotta get Deeks," she reminds him, brushing off his now bloodied fingers.

She blinks as they walk outside the room's door, the narrow hall seemingly untouched, looking no different now than it had moments before. But once they make it outside, it's a whole other story.

People are standing around, hands covering their mouths in shock, others taking pictures with their phones, all of them facing the destroyed corner of the building and the truck buried inside.

Kensi stands still for a moment, not knowing what to do. But then Sam takes off running, screaming Deeks' name as he climbs over the rubble to the place Deeks would most likely have fallen.

Kensi had thought she'd be relieved when they found Deeks, but then she's been wrong before.

There's not a lot of blood. Kensi thinks this should be a good thing, but she's not naïve. She's fully aware that a little blood on the outside can mean a lot of damage on the inside.

She's sitting by his legs, her hands absently massaging his calf. She isn't sure if it's to comfort him or herself. Callen is sitting by her, knee pressed against the back of Deeks' thighs, his hands holding her partner's hips still, trying to stop him from rolling onto his back, from bumping the glass.

The other pieces of the window are scattered about, some obscured by dust and drywall, others glinting in the sun, untouched by the carnage of the motel around them. Then there's the piece that has connected itself to Deeks. It's about twelve inches long, its length pinching the back of Deeks' t-shirt, the edges outlined in blood, not a lot, but enough. It's jutting straight out of his back.

She hears Sam talking to Deeks, hears the occasional whimper and groan from her partner, and she wonders if he's even aware that he's doing it. Despite the sites and sounds surrounding her, the way Deeks' arm bends at an awkward angle, the way the muscles in his leg keep twitching beneath her touch, the way the blood blends with the dust, it's the sound of Sam's voice that scares the hell out of her.

He's speaking softly, in a light tone one would reserve for a scared child. He's talking about random things, things that really don't matter right now. He's no longer telling Deeks not to move, not asking him where it hurts. He's simply talking, his hands held firmly around Deeks' neck, fingers bracing the back of his head, left thumb slowly moving in a calming circle.

Kensi knows that Sam cares about his team, about each and every one of them, Deeks included—like one would an annoying little brother. But the sight of Sam offering comfort, intentionally and obviously trying to distract…it scares her. It makes her realize just how bad it is.

She can't see much from her spot near his feet, but it's pretty clear that Deeks is confused. She's not sure if his mind is aware of his body at the moment. His eyes are focused on Sam, his brow pinched tight in pain and bewilderment, but his body…

There's the twitch in his legs, the way the fingers on his right hand keep flexing like he's trying to grab something. The only reason he hasn't turned over yet is because of Callen, because of the hand braced on his lower back, the other on his hip. He may be focused on Sam, but his body is trying to get away.

"Yo, man. Stay awake," Sam says, his voice suddenly sharp. Kensi feels her teeth grind together as she forces down the panic, her mind jumping to attention, unwillingly focusing on the here, and now.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Later, when all is said and done, Sam will look back and frown at the fact that he hadn't noticed the sirens or fire trucks until the one fireman had snuck up on him, placing a strong hand on his shoulder.

"Are you hurt?" The man asks, taking a knee to look back and forth between Sam and Deeks.

"No." Sam shakes his head as he moves to stand, the act made awkward by the fact that he's still supporting Deeks' head. "We were on the second floor," Sam begins to explain, reluctantly letting the firemen take over. He stays close though, answering questions the best he can.

When the stretcher's brought in, he's forced out of the way, herded outside with Kensi and Callen as more firefighters and medics try to get to Deeks and the driver of the truck.

From there, it's all a whirlwind of the surreal. Sam stands next to Kensi and Callen, all watching as the rescue workers do their job. Any questions the agents ask are answered with rehearsed lines, safe, open ended promises about doing all they can. It's all things they've said themselves at one point or another during their careers.

It isn't until after the ambulance pulls away and Sam's phone begins to ring that he realizes they still have a case to finish.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

They say you're only as old as you feel. It's been thirteen hours since she first told Eric to collect to others for a briefing. It's only been eight since her team followed a lead to that godforsaken motel, five since Marty Deeks had gotten out of surgery. All things considered, it's safe to say that today Henrietta Lange feels pretty damn old.

The soft soles of her shoes barely make a sound as she makes her way down the seemingly deserted hall. It's nearing two AM, the only people still in the hospital are those that intend to stay until morning. Turning the last corner and counting the doors, Hetty comes upon one person who probably plans to stay longer than that.

Kensi's sitting near the wall, the little light from the small lamp above Deeks' bed barely making it to her side of the room. The effect makes the lines on her face look more like bruises than shadows.

"Miss Blye." It's softly spoken, a product of the stillness in the room.

Kensi blinks, and turns her shiny eyes towards the door. "They said I could stay," is her greeting, as though she has to justify her still being in the room after visiting hours have ended.

"I know," Hetty tells her. "They told me I could find you here." Kensi doesn't ask who "they" are. She simply nods and folds her arms around her bent knees, the heels of her feet resting on the edge of the chair.

Not knowing what else to do, Hetty enters the darkened hospital room and sits in the empty seat next to Kensi. She lets her tired body rest against the back of the chair and relishes the feeling of her weight leaving her sore feet before she lets herself look at the bed and the man lying in it.

The lamp, though not nearly light enough to reach all corners of the room, gives off just enough light to halo the sleeping detective. Deeks is lying on his side, his hair splayed across the pillow in a more unruly manner than Hetty's used to seeing on him. There's wires and tubes snaking beneath the blanket and gown. His arm is in a cast, and there's a small cut near his left eyebrow, but other than that, there's no sign of the severity of what had happened just hours before.

"Surgeon said the glass missed his spine," Kensi whispers, quietly interrupting Hetty's assessment, while simultaneously reminding her that she can't see all the wounds from her current vantage point.

Kensi's got her cheek resting on her knee now as she looks at Hetty, her exhaustion obvious. "They're more worried about where he hit his head."

"I was told that the MRI was clear…" Hetty turns back to look at Deeks. Nothing's changed in the last two seconds, but her worry makes her look harder, to look for something she might have missed.

Kensi sighs and follows Hetty's gaze. "It was," she confirms, "but they said that could change. They're gonna do another scan in the morning. Make sure there wasn't a bleed we couldn't see before."

"Are they just being cautious, or are they truly worried?" Hetty asks, already making note to speak to the doctors again.

Kensi just blinks, and whether she didn't hear Hetty or is just choosing to ignore her, she says, "He hasn't woken up yet."

That Hetty already knew. Callen had called her earlier, letting her know all he had managed to get from the nurses tending to Deeks. A rushed phone call with Deeks' attending physician had only eased her concerns so much. He had promised that Deeks was stable and that the staff was hopeful he'd make a full recovery. Nothing else had been said.

Hetty doesn't like to just sit and wait. She's always been a take action kind of person, whether it's behind the scenes or on the front lines. The moment Nell had run down the stairs with news of an accident, Hetty had been steadily working. She made a few phone calls, given even more orders, and called in a favor or two. Idle hands make for more than idle minds in Hetty's opinion, and she wasn't going to sit around and wait.

Hetty clears her throat, and rests her hands in her lap. "The truck driver suffered an aneurism." She looks to Kensi, making sure she has her attention. "Coroner says he was probably dead before the truck ever hit the building."

"So it was an accident." It's said on an exhale, quietly and with the distinct stutter that suggest Kensi's fighting the urge to cry. "I've been sitting here, thinking about everything. Trying to figure what happened, why…"

"The driver wasn't at fault, Miss Blye," Hetty reiterates, taking away the scapegoat for Kensi's anger. "It was a tragedy that consisted of terrible timing and unfortunate circumstances." Hetty decides not to mention that had the driver's aneurism burst while he had still been on the freeway, the possibility of numerous deaths and more damage would have been greater.

"I spoke with the Fire Marshall just before I came here," Hetty says into the once again quiet room. It's one of the reason's she had come, second only to the need to check on her people. "He says the floor shouldn't have caved like that. Even with a truck of that size…"

"It hit the corner," Kensi points out, "Took out the supporting structure."

"One supporting structure," Hetty corrects, "Just one, not all. Shortly after you left the scene, the remaining part of the wall fell. They've been investigating all night, and the Marshall just called to inform me that the motel wasn't built to code."

Kensi frowns, her eyebrows meeting together. Hetty isn't sure if it's the knock to the head Callen had told her about, or if it's just the stress and exhaustion of the day, but Kensi looks like she's having trouble seeing why that matters.

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Miss Blye, that this should never have happened."

And whether it should have or not, doesn't change the fact that it did. And come morning, they'll all be stuck with the ugly truth, no matter what truth that may be, because no amount of platitudes or false hope will change reality.

End.