Stuck
She's depressed.
Okay, depressed is probably a strong word, but disappointed is definitely not far from the mark. She can't help it. She knows better, of course. It's not like they're in a relationship they can proclaim to the rooftops. Even if it was she knows it's not his thing. Hell, she is, in so many ways, lucky they're even in this to begin with. He doesn't do relationships. Period. And he definitely doesn't get involved with women who carry guns.
Really, that's the tip of the iceberg when it comes to them.
But they are in this, they have been in this, and while she'd known better than to expect something on Valentine's Day, she can't keep herself from being disappointed. She'd hoped, definitely, over the course of the day, and even when she'd tentatively and shyly – two words that she tries to keep from being with him – asked if he was coming by later, he'd told her he had a thing.
A thing.
She sighs. At least she knows where she stands now.
They've been in limbo, of course. She's been calling what they've been doing a relationship solely because she knows neither of them is sleeping with anyone else. They're exclusive, but convenient. They don't date, and there's definitely no exchanging of pet names or cute gifts. Of course, that's not his style and if she started getting adorable little teddy bears or pink carnations she'd probably stop the whole thing right there, but there are certain things, as a woman, that she most certainly can't help but want. Even from her quasi-relationship partner.
So she drags herself home and is half way through finding her apartment key when she realizes that there are lights on that shouldn't be. She's power conscious and she never knows when she's going to be home. She never leaves lights on. She reaches automatically for her gun, even though it seems ridiculous to think that someone who wanted to get to her would turn the bloody lights on.
The door is locked, to her relief, but it's short-lived. She still doesn't understand the lights and it's starting to make her anxious. She steps in, wary and cautious. She doesn't hear a sound, but she knows that doesn't mean no one's there. She's about to clear her apartment when her eyes settle on the coffee table. All thoughts of danger flee and her gun lowers.
Roses.
Different roses.
Her breath stops as she steps closer, noticing the red envelope with it. Her fingers shake as she puts down her gun and reaches for the envelope. The paper inside is bright white and her heart picks up as she recognizes the scrawl at the bottom.
Kens,
Hope they say what we both know I can't.
He hasn't signed his name but she knows. She always knows. And now she doesn't know what to do. It's not the first time he's thrown her a curveball – hell, he's the one who jumped her – but this feels like more. It feels more important, more significant, more of everything.
Above his note is a typed table. All twelve roses are listed on the left. The right, she realizes, is a list of their meanings. Flower meanings. So far from what she expected from him.
She drops to her couch. She's never really paid attention to the meaning of flowers. She's never really cared, if she's honest. Hell, her favourite flower is a red tulip, solely because her father had given her a dozen of them when she became a teenager. But she can't help but be touched by this. This is something else entirely and she barely breathes as she checks the colours against the meaning.
There's the obvious red, peeking out from behind a beautiful pale pink. She knows there's a million definitions without checking the words listed for her – romantic love, passion, respect – and she's only vaguely familiar with the joy, sweetness, gentleness and admiration apparently associated with light pink. Coral and orange are appropriate for the lust that so often drives what they have, desire and fascination all rolled into one explosive combination. She doesn't really know what to do with the white. He's included silence, secrecy and reverence as its meaning, but she's not sure if he's referring to the massive secret they're keeping or if it's more about patience. The meaning of the deep burgundy – unconscious beauty – makes her smile stupidly, and the lavender – enchantment – makes her gasp. Peach, apparently, is supposed to show he's grateful, that he appreciates her. He lists friendship, delight and 'I care' as definitions for her yellow rose. The dark pink is supposed to say 'thank you', for what, she has no idea.
It's the red-tipped yellow that holds her attention though.
Friendship. Falling in love.
Her fingers have tightened unconsciously on the paper, crinkling the edges. She's barely breathing, barely aware of what's going on around her. This may even say more than he'd anticipated.
Because if she takes the roses at their word, he's just told her he's falling in love with her.
Her breath whooshes out as she tries to take that in, tries to absorb that meaning. She knows her own feelings are intense. It's what makes being with him such a damn thrill. It's what leaves her satisfied with what they have at the end of the day, despite the fact that there's nothing permanent in it. Her feelings, she's always thought, are hers and hers alone. Sure, sometimes she feels lonely or unappreciated, but even her friends in relationships feel the same sometimes. When they are together, she feels like the center of someone's world, even if it's only a few hours.
Eventually, her thoughts quiet and a smile spreads slowly across her face. It's fond and smitten, like she can't help herself. And she can't. She's so stuck and for the first time that day she hasn't resented the thought. If she's stuck, it looks like he's stuck too.
She pulls the yellow and red rose from the vase, placing it right along side the meaning as carefully as she can. She snaps a picture and opens her messages.
Me too, she types out, wiping at the irrational tears in her eyes.
They're stuck, it seems; on each other, on what they have and on what they are. Yet this is the first time she can say she's okay with it.
Because at least they're stuck together.
The thing I think can be so super cool about Kensi and Callen is so much of what I feel works with them always feels unfinished. Like there's more to see, more to do. I don't think I could ever, personally, write a true happily ever after for them because I feel like if they're ever in this situation, it's just going to be a story that never ends. There's always going to be something. Insecurity, the job, stopping the job, deciding that they're worthy of moving forward together… I don't think these are two characters that really feel like they deserve what I like to believe they can be together.
So I could have gone smutty with this, and then the muse decided that it would be a crying shame to do so. There's something about this that's deceptively romantic, almost. Callen doesn't strike me as the type to actually give twelve red roses and according to the interwebs that told me all the flower meanings, eleven is also a significant number. I'll let y'all google it yourselves rather than ruin the surprise.
This is my VD present. I was hoping it would be the next chapter of Tis (it's a chocolate themed chapter) but then it wasn't. So you get this instead. Errors are mine. I'm exhausted and can barely see straight, but I wanted to put it up for VD.
Hope you enjoyed!