Rating: Mild T
Summary: Four new perspectives on four different 'minor' characters: Rose, Ty, Eric, and Marty.
Warnings: No OCs; the characters are actually a part of the show. I just add my unique spin to them. In the case of Marty Deeks, nothing new is revealed…just expounded upon. There is a small amount of slash, but it deals with unrequited love. Major character only show up in relation to the minor characters.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or the show (NCIS: Los Angeles). Characters are sole property of Mr. Brennan.
Dr. Rose Wohlk, M.E. blinked as her doors 'whoosh'-ed opened, her non-regulation, untied curls bouncing around her face. It wasn't often people came down to visit her. People thought the morgue was creepy because of all the dead people, but to her, it was the quietest sanctuary in this joint. "Oh! Hey!" She fumbled with her headgear before placing it on her instrument tray. "How's everything, yanno, topside?" She chirped away, ignoring the exasperated looks between Special Agents Byle and Hanna as well as the bloated, pale corpse separating her from them.
"Fine." Hanna spoke for the both of them, arms crossed. He looked defensive, or at least, that's what Nate would say. Nate was good with the people stuff. She…wasn't. His nose scrunched up and she tossed him a jar of Vaseline, which he caught easily.
"It, uh, it helps with the smell," she said, gesturing underneath her nose. He smeared some Vaseline under his nose and handed it off to Byle. She looked almost grateful for the reprieve of the sickly sweet smell. Rose grinned, patting the corpse in the middle of its Y-incision like a fond pet. "Ol' Jose here isn't going to get any fresher!" Her grin faltered at the confused looks she received. "Well, I guess you're here for the results, right?
"Staff Sergeant Joseph Ramirez, age 30. Um, he suffocated, at least from my pre-lim report, but there's no bruises or anything that indicates any suffocation had occurred. No water in his lungs, so that rules out drowning. His hyoid bone is still intact, so no strangulation." She used her thumbs to pry open the man's stiff eyelids. "No hemorrhaging of the eye, which is weird because blood vessels in the eyes are, like, the first to go when you're smothering someone. Yet, his lungs show signs of compression, contraction-suffocation, er, I guess it's all the same thing, really. It's a little puzzling, but I'm sure I can crack this nut!"
"So, he suffocated but without the usual indicators?" Byle reiterated, hands on her hips. "Is this even possible? Can there be any other ways he died?"
Rose looked down at the body, a rare frown on her lips. "It…can be possible. Anything's possible. But, I'll run a report up to Toxicology to see if they can find anything I missed. Do you guys have any other leads?"
"We're not at liberty to say at this time."
Byle rolled her two-toned eyes. "We don't have any other leads. Whatever killed this Staff Sergeant could just get us over the lull we're having in this case. Thanks, Rose."
"¡No problema! ¡Siempre quiero ayudar!"
Hanna and Byle exchanged looks.
Ty Chen loved working with computers. He loved the delicate yet inflexible feel of thousands upon thousands of kilobytes' worth of memory at the mercy of his tools. He loved building computers from spare parts that no one in their right mind would put together.
But, as much as he loved computers, he loved Dominic Vail the most. They started relatively at the same time and formed a bond because of their 'new guy' statuses. Whenever Callen or Sam's hassling got to him or when a job got too rough, Dom would drop by his small desk. They would talk about the latest computuer game or WOW or sci-fi show over the guts of Dom's would-be computer. When Dom first fanboyed over his Alpha Centauri Imperial Class Guardians Bobble-head, Ty knew it was love.
Ty wasn't gay. He didn't like men at all and gay sex, from what he looked up one horrifying curious night, frankly terrified him. That didn't stop him from falling in love with Dom, though. When Agent Byle came into his dark corner with a shot up hard drive, he cooed at the poor thing, a sense of clinical detachment enveloping him as he looked at it through a magnified lens. He needed this; he needed work to distract him from Dom's MIA status.
His stomach dropped as he examined the hard drive again. "Wait, this is Dom's, isn't it?" Byle was so upset all she could do was nod. His eyes watered and he cleared his throat.
"I'll, uh, see what I can do." She nodded again and left quickly. He wiped his eyes and got to work. Time wasn't on his or Dom's side.
He couldn't save the video—not for the lack of trying—, but he definitely got the audio. The first person he went to was Eric. Eric was his boss, but more than that, he was Ty's friend. One look at Ty's blotchy, tear-stained face and Eric opened up his arms. They both vibrated with the strains of caffeine- and adrenaline-high.
Ty murmured his prayers into Eric's chest as the tech operator tried to soothe him the best way he could. "We'll get him, we'll get him, we'll get him."
At Dom's funeral, he couldn't stop sobbing. He couldn't even make it to the casket lowering and, instead, sat numbly under an oak tree outside the church, cigarette dangling from his fingers.
"We lost someone very close to us today. Dom was a colleague, a son, a brother, a friend…" He couldn't stand to listen to the wizened preacher who knew nothing of the man in the casket except a few crib notes. He wasn't pacified by that.
A shadow passed over him and he looked up into the sun, wincing. G. Callen. Ty wiped his eyes and tried to make himself presentable in front of the team leader. Why was Callen out here and not inside? The leader of NCIS needed to be with his team, presenting a strong, united front. Instead, Callen sat down beside the computer techie and slung an arm over his shoulders.
He was on the straight and narrow, now. Even after five years with countless Federal agencies, he felt the itch under his fingernails. He ached. Hacking was in his blood, and he was the best there was until he got caught. No one knew he was a hacker; that was one of his stipulations in his deal with the Government.
He didn't want whatever team he worked with treating him like a scumbag because he was a criminal. His newest team was good. They worked hard and while they were a little immature at times, they were the best at what they did. He could have gone without Dr. Getz's interventions or his poking into his background, but Hetty fielded all questions about his background with the patience of a saint.
For all intents and purposes, 'Eric Beal' was a real citizen with no felonies and only a handful of harmless misdemeanors and parking tickets. He had a loving family: mom, dad, and three older sisters. He graduated on top of his classes at MIT, double majoring in English and Computer Science with a minor in Political Science just for fun.
Enigma was dead. And everything he did died with him.
Eric sighed, tapping on a few keys and bringing up surveillance photos. Callen was out and about with Sam. They didn't need his help with the reconnaissance, yet. Kensi wasn't jumping down his throat for something. Nate was far, far away, hopefully too busy solving the puzzle of Callen's true identity to peek into anyone else's files. He had his office all to himself, aside from a few techies.
"Hoping to entertain ourselves, are we, Mr. Beal?" Eric fumbled with his handheld computer before turning around in his chair to greet the Operations Manager. For such a tiny thing, Henrietta Lange held incredible power and could intimidate anyone. No one was more susceptible to her tactics than Eric; mainly because she was the one who held his leash.
He sighed. "It's harder some days."
"Ah, yes. The addictions of our pasts can be so sweet. But, as tempting as they are, there is always a price for re-opening old wounds."
"Yeah…I guess so." His price would be one stop straight to Jail. No passing 'Go'; no collecting two hundred dollars. Game over.
She sipped at her foul-smelling tea. "You just need to find something constructive to do, Mr. Beal. Build a model airplane. Learn how to paint. Sleep for once. Do something to get you away from these infernal contraptions and into some fresh sunlight."
"These 'infernal contraptions' save lives, Hetty. If I want to keep up with the latest tech, I can't afford hobbies." His statements reeked of countless past arguments. She waved them away with a graceful, weathered hand.
"Nonsense. I've been around a long time, and while it's true this generation has the quickest turnover for technology, I believe you can afford a few hours away from this room when it's not affecting our current cases. What is it that you like to do besides staying cooped up in here?"
Eric grew silent. Outside of his 'work', he didn't really do anything. He was holed up in a Government-sanctioned building a few miles from HQ, which he only went to when the cot in his lab didn't cut it. He had no really hobbies, but… "I, uh, like cooking?"
"Very good!" She sounded generally happy about his breakthrough. "What style: French, Italian, Mediterranean?"
"Oh…I don't know. I like Italian food. Who doesn't?"
"The French." She didn't elaborate on that point. "Well, my boy, take some Italian cooking classes down at the local learning annex. I'm sure in no time you'll be proficient in it. You are a fast learner, after all."
His smile was genuine. "Thanks, Hetty. Maybe I will."
He had no idea what a LAPD liaison to NCIS did. He knew the logistics and everything; after all, Marty Deeks wasn't an idiot, but personally, he didn't think he was the right guy for the job. He was an undercover cop. He had no political pull or power within his own ranks. And now, the LAPD thought he was a turncoat. NCIS definitely didn't trust him. How was he supposed to act as a go-between to two temperamental agencies that didn't trust him?
He partnered with Kensi often, even though she was slightly cold to him. He didn't blame her; if he lost his partner, he wouldn't have warmed up to his replacement either. On the other hand, he wasn't a replacement for Dominic Vail, so he didn't understand the team's hostility, especially Sam Hanna's. The first time he sat on Dom's chair, Sam chewed up out and moved that silly bobble-head into a more territorial place on the desk. Then, Sam stonewalled him into talking to Hetty to sign off on thirty thousand dollars. He passed that test, bringing Callen a credit card with a limit of fifty thousand and getting them into the club with one of his aliases. It didn't stop Sam's aggression, of course. The team leader, Callen, was a little more subtle with his frat boy hazing and quit when Marty proved himself a good shot.
The first chance Marty got, he took his surfboard and drove down to County Line. The wetsuit fit like a second skin, the breeze ruffled his golden curls, and he could smell the sea from his battered truck. Conditions were ideal. He paddled out, riding out a few of the swells.
Surfing was largely a waiting game. A little of it was physical. A lot of it was pure luck. A large wall of perfect wave came up and he paddled outwards, heaving himself up and on the board. He overbalanced towards the end of his ride and with a wild whoop he toppled off the board and into the ocean. He resurfaced a few yards away, clinging onto his board and his vision obscured. He carded his plastered hair and slicked it back. "Hoo," he exhaled. This was his last trip down to County Line until his next undercover job was over.
Marty paddled his way towards shore where a dark figure waited. Automatically suspicious, he made his way towards the blob, wishing he left his contacts in. Who'd be at the beach at 7:30 anyway? His vision cleared and he stopped in his tracks.
"Agent Hanna? Sam?" He had so many questions. Most importantly: "How did you find me?"
"Eric caught your rusty ass Silverado turning off the ramp. It didn't take a genius to figure out which beach you were going to."
"I…see." He stabbed his surfboard into the sand between him and Sam's bulk. "Well, you found me. What's up?"
"It's come to my attention that I could be a little easier on you."
Marty lifted an eyebrow. "Did Callen tell you to play nice with me? Or was it Hetty? Kensi? Listen, Sam, I appreciate the, uh, stalking, but we both know that whatever animosity we have between us isn't going to be resolved unless you want it to be." He shrugged, leaning against his board. "You have a problem with me. I don't know why, but I accept it because I am professional. Now, tell me the real reason you're here."
Sam moved closer, silent and stealthy like a panther. He was so close the prayer beads tucked under his long-sleeved, blue shirt were noticeable. Marty tried not to flinch at the proximity. They already went a round in the ring and he wasn't eager to taste Sam's fists again.
"My team seems to like you, Deeks. I don't know when or how or why. All I know is if you fuck it up, I'm gonna be on your ass like white on rice."
"Now, I'm going to get dressed because my wetsuit's currently riding up my ass crack, comprende?" Sam shrugged and moved away with a slight smirk on his face. Feeling like he passed another test, he hitched up his surfboard and walked straight to his car. When he finally looked back, there was no one in sight.
"Huh…well, that's not spooky at all." Just what did he get himself into?