"Kensi Blye, this is Marty Deeks—your new partner."
Kensi looked up and for a split-second, she was lost in a tossing and turning sea of oceanic blue, sharp and dark and strong—and familiar. The man that was to be her new partner was tall and golden and scruffy, but it was his eyes, deep and clear, that held her entranced.
She studied his face slowly, gradually, taking in each feature at leisure, sifting through memories like they were a puzzle that she just couldn't put together—until he spoke.
"It's nice to meet you." His voice fell into place like as the missing piece, and Kensi had to force herself not to falter in pure shock—it was him, from so many years ago, the stranger with the smile that had come and gone with the wind.
~x~
She remembered that it was cold, so cold. The wind cut through her jacket like a knife, but she didn't shiver, didn't flinch—she could barely feel it, she was numb through and through.
She was sitting on a bench on the main bridge right outside of Los Angeles, the coils and supports all a rusty red. Like blood, she had mused darkly, not really caring what others thought about that lone girl on the bench staring out over the open water, occasional ripples cresting across the surface. The wind screamed around her, buffeting her in sheets of frigid air, thumping relentlessly against her eardrums and when she finally did shiver, it wasn't from the cold.
Hell, she was nineteen. Life had, technically, barely started—but she felt as if she had aged decades overnight, the pain in her chest sharp and throbbing and real.
She didn't know where to go without him, didn't know what it was like to live and eat and breath without her father by her side. Her judgment was clouded like the tumultuous sky; impulsive, irrational thoughts kept leaping to the front of her mind, the venomous suggestions leaving possibilities open and ready to be discovered.
Part of her hated him for leaving her, for being torn for her life, leaving a gaping hole ripped in the side of her fragile heart. But she also knew that he would have fought to his dying breath to stay—and the very fact that a mere car crash had snatched the breath from his lungs seemed so unreal. He was invincible, her Superman-like best friend—a Marine, for God's sake—there had to be more.
She inhaled, the cold air nipping the inside of her throat, her lungs, and for a moment, she was glad for the pain, because it means that somehow, through all of this, she was still alive and capable of feeling something other than sorrow and grief.
She stifled a dry sob as she heard footsteps behind her, and for a moment, she wanted to believe so, so badly that it was her daddy, somehow hear to say there'd been a mistake and that he was fine and she could continue living as if her soul hadn't just been shredded into a million little pieces.
"You going to jump?"
The voice shocked her, as well as the boldness of the question, and it took a moment for her to connect the sound of shuffling feet with the boy—no, man—that sat down beside her. He wore a simple leather jacket over a plaid shirt, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. He had a mop of golden waves, stubble covering his jaw.
"I don't know." Her own voice surprised her, and she hated how it was obvious she had been crying.
She could feel him studying her, and she refused to look him in the eyes.
"You don't know."
"Nope." She wanted him to leave her alone, feeling, underneath the thick layer of pain, slightly annoyed. She hadn't even really considered jumping until he had intruded into her little bubble of wind and tears.
There was a moment of silence.
"Why do you care?" Again, her own voice surprised her, not completely sure where the words were coming from.
Beside her, the stranger shifted.
"Because my sister jumped." His voice didn't catch, it didn't crack, but for some reason, she felt that inside, he was still as raw and hurting as she was. "I watched her do it. I couldn't get to her in time." If he spoke any quieter, his voice would've been carried away be the wind.
"I'm—I'm so sorry." She honestly didn't know what to say.
He shrugged. "I don't understand why people apologize. There's nothing they could've done, they weren't there." He fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. "But that's why whenever I see anyone on this bridge, I stop to talk to them."
"How many?" She couldn't help but ask out of curiosity.
"Too many." He ran a hand through his hair.
"You don't have to worry about me." Her voice was soft.
He was quiet for a moment. "If you don't mind me asking, why are you here?"
"My father," she said softly. "Car crash." Admitting it out loud made her heart scream, and she desperately fought to recapture the tears that began to fall.
She barely registered his arms wrapping around her shaking form, stilling her trembling shoulders and pressing her head gently against his chest.
He smelled of sea salt and the beating of his heart was a murmur in her ear, comforting and warm. The pillow of his chest caused her to rise and fall with his even breaths, one hand tracing lightly up and down her arm.
To be honest, she had no idea what she was doing—she had never spoken to him before in her life, and here she was, letting him hold her like they had known each other for years—but she was comforted by the fact that someone, for the first time since her father's death, was willing to simply shut up and let her cry.
After five solid minutes of clutching the front of his shirt in tight fists and sobbing into his chest, she resurfaced, as if she was breaking through lake of sorrow she had been drowning in for the first time.
"Th-thank you." She wiped her eyes and looked into his for the first time, momentarily paralyzed by their shocking, overwhelming blue.
"You're welcome." He brushed a piece of hair out of her face and they both froze, stunned by the unexpected, intimate motion.
She swallowed and stood, her heart thudding and blood roaring in her ears. God, she was an emotional train wreck.
"Wait—here." He pulled a scrap piece of paper and pen out of his pocket, quickly scribbling down his number. "If you ever need anything, give me a call—please, don't ever jump."
She took the tiny piece of paper silently, nodding. He gave her a hug before he returned to his truck, which had been idling in the shoulder. She watched him pull away, numbly, the paper he had given her crumpled in her fist.
She knew she'd never call.
~x~
After getting over the initial, shell-shocking realization that she was the beautiful girl from the bridge, the one with the unforgettable two-toned eyes full of tears, he found that this woman wasn't like anyone he'd ever met before.
She was resilient and strong, unpredictable as a whirlwind and gorgeous in every single way. She had gotten her heart ripped apart, and because of that, she didn't let anyone close enough to hurt her. He took it upon himself to break down the walls she had carefully constructed around herself, and little by little, brick by brick, he wormed his way into her tiny circle of confidants.
He loved to watch her work, the way she weaseled information out of witnesses and how jaw-droppingly amazing she looked on undercover operations. He loved the way she furrowed her brow in concentration and the way she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet to stay silent when they were sneaking up on someone.
Gradually, he began to love her completely, not just for the little things she did.
Eventually, she began to love him back.
They never spoke about the bridge.