The lines are thick, and deep, and layered, and they will not be erased.
When he needs her, when she's the only one who can, she touches him—hallelujah—but the lines are there. The hand, the shoulder. The hand, the shoulder.
Later, he has his own space, and she does not touch him. They do not touch. The space between them is as close to tangible as intangible space can be. She reaches with words—he reaches with words—the words touch, almost, dance around each other with fleeting contact like butterfly kisses.
Their eyes search and hide, run forward and back, speak and are silent as the dirt between the worms under the graves.
They reach and pull back, try and falter, and as they do they wonder, What would happen if I reached my hand out, there, instead of my words—if I touched his hand, just as it is there, with my hand—his fingers with my fingers—if I held them for one, two, three—
Maybe I can walk around this desk, here, and stand on the other side. If I stood, just there, on the other side, I could reach up with one hand—as I look up with my eyes, as my eyes meet his—and I could touch the hairs at the side of his face, the softest skin just there at the temple.
What comfort could be given then?
The words fail, the eyes fail, and Kensi walks away feeling that she has failed—so Deeks tells her that she succeeded by virtue of her existence.
(That is love, that is love, that is the very meaning of love.)
So he reaches, with his words, and he touches her.
But she doesn't touch him.
The lines are thick, and deep, and layered, and they will not be erased.