Disclaimer: the characters and situations contained herein do not belong to me. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: For Jess, my capslock partner in crime and all around amazing person. Your screennames may say "asthedayisfading" but you are truly a ray of sunshine in my life, and I don't know what I'd do without you. Thanks for not giving up on me. OTP: What is the deal with salsa? for life.
Includes references through all aired episodes, with particular focus on "Fame," and speculation based on vague spoilers for tonight's episode, "Merry Evasion." Rated T for language and innuendo, and includes a warning for mentions of child abuse/assault.
As always, feedback is cherished. I'm honestly a little iffy on the strength of this one, so I'd very much like to hear your thoughts.
And from my crazy house to yours, here's wishing you all things merry and bright. I have to go get a cat out of a Christmas tree now.
Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky. -Rainer Maria Rilke
The Santa Anas nip at her heels as she climbs the two small steps leading to the bungalow's front door, the wind brushing against her back and standing in for the one who should be at her side but isn't. The precarious balancing act she's fought to carve out – first in her life in general and now with balancing her work gear, the mail and order from Yummy Yummy Heart Attack – starts to fail spectacularly. Her key ring slips from her finger and lands with a light, tinkling laugh on the front stoop, its edges falling so that they remind her to follow the instructions on the mat that lays there: "wipe your paws." She shifts the take-out to her left hand and lowers it safely on the stoop and then bends at her waist, reaching for the fallen keys. The movement draws her saddle bag from her shoulder to the crook of her elbow, and instead of wishing for the counterbalance she's come to know and somehow, amazingly, rely on, she just laughs with the wind as it teases her like he does, and she simply shakes her head at her one-man Laurel and Hardy act.
And though her partner in said act – in all things – isn't present, the idea that she'll never be a solo production still manages to turn the right corner of her mouth upward in a smile.
She pulls her bag toward her shoulder again, picks up her dinner in her left hand and finally slides the key into the deadbolt with her right. She's got the door halfway open when a determined snout appears, trying to make the process go faster.
"Don't pretend you're trying to help," she says in half-greeting, half-warning, but her tone is light. "I know you're calling dibs." She uses the momentum to swing the door all the way open, depositing her dinner and keys on the console table set immediately to the right of the door before reaching down and rubbing Monty's head. "Runs in the family, huh, boy?"
It still takes her aback sometimes that that word applies to her now; doubly so when she considers just with whom she's built one. Home is the same way; she'd always defined it as four walls, a door, some windows. But she's come to understand that it's so much more than that, so much more than a place to lay your head or even, as the cliché says, where your heart is; instead, it's a place where your heart is safe. What she had thought of as "home" before was, in actuality, a house; with him, it's their own piece of heaven, their own bit of elsewhere.
They were not raised in the shadows of picket fences but instead defined by the demons that had chased them. Little did they know that as they'd run, they'd been doing so in both parallel and trajectory, starting in an MMA gym and ending – or perhaps beginning again (again) – by building a bridge over a frozen lake instead of waiting it to thaw, because it didn't matter anymore who took the first step or who caught up; the important thing was that they were in this together.
She closes the door behind her and reaches her left hand along the wall, fingers skimming across the waxy finish of Deeks' surfboard in her search for the overhead light switch. The sense of serenity she feels when she's home is not new; the silence, however, is. But she's found that life is more lived in the quiet moments, so it seems to unexpectedly fit. In his absence, their sanctuary is backlit in grayscale, more like the black and white chessboard they live between nine and five instead of the Kodachrome existence they're painting between five and nine. It's as yet unfinished, mismatched and just slightly unfocused, but it's inspired, and she's learned that some things are better left to find their own sense of timing.
Unhappy with being momentarily ignored, Monty changes locations, circling all the way around her legs, eventually nudging hands in impatience. She turns and flips the deadbolt behind her, chuckling as she reaches down to scratches his ears again. "Subtle and patient like your father," she says, smiling as his tail thwacks the edges of the coffee and console tables on either side of him in his excitement. She toes her shoes off and deposits her saddle bag on the sofa, motioning to the food with her chin. "That better be here when I get back," she warns, and Monty whines, but sits dutifully, and she just shakes her head.
As she walks down the hall toward their bedroom, she's surrounded by pieces of them, signs of this life they're building together scattered throughout the apartment. His jeans are still on the floor, her bra thrown haphazardly in the same general vicinity, left over from their night of lovemaking before he went on assignment. He's programmed ESPN into her favorite channels list; their grocery list has necessities written in two hands, interwoven as seamlessly like their tangled limbs and beating heartstrings. The laminated story about the snake at Darryl's eighth birthday party when they were kids is on their fridge. The normalcy is almost deafening.
She changes quickly from her work clothes and settles into a pair of yoga pants and an LAPD SWAT t-shirt, hurriedly readjusting her ponytail and quickly padding barefoot back to the main part of the house when she catches a glimpse of the time. Monty's settled at the foot of the couch and perks up as she goes to the kitchen to grab a beer.
She settles on the sofa behind him, pulling her knees toward her chest, and leaning to her left to grab her dinner. She unzips her bag and pulls out her laptop, waking it from sleep and connecting to Skype.
She flips on the TV as she waits, offering Monty some veggies as they wait, and glances around the room – takes stock of the snapshots that make up a story that started as hers but is now invariably, inextricably theirs – and not for the first time, wonders at the totality of it.
She'd always compared their relationship to a ricochet; unplanned timing and unexpected impact. It was dangerous, explosive; sizzled beneath the spotlight of the California sun. She'd tried to brace for impact; tried to steel herself against the onslaught of the heat that singed the back of her neck. But somehow it had turned out to be a little bit less dangerous and a little more permanent, and the impact marks no longer feel like damage. They're always going to be hardened by the losses, but the hurt is softened when they're together.
It's been so long since she's been alone alone, and it doesn't seem to fit as well as it had before. It feels oddly uncomfortable not to have his body weight next to her or his hand on her thigh as they scroll through the endless DVR listings, or to be able to curl up with his head in her lap and her fingers in his hair, threading lazily as they half pay attention to the Angels game. She learned early on that he's tactile – a little more than she'd imagined or anticipated, and that his fingers wandered depending on the day, but he loves to write stories on her skin – weaves their histories together and pens their future, eagerly turning the pages but knowing when to slow down in revelation to breathe in every detail. He is the wordsmith for them, keen to keep them the truth in a world built on lies, and for the first time in her life, she's content to sit back and listen.
She, on the other hand, is more deliberate. She finds the ways to reach across unfathomable chasms when her skin touches his, speaking volumes in the lack of sound, the pads of her thumbs in an eternal effort to relieve the tension he tends to carry between his neck and shoulder blades. Others, her palm splays at the small of his back, not ushering or hurrying – the antithesis, actually; he's taught her how to slows them down from terminal velocity – but instead as confirmation that she's right there, is always going to be, and that unlike his past experiences tell him, not all hands hurt.
There's a telltale pop on the screen in front of her, and she mutes the TV, adjusting the screen until she sees his. As if on cue, a furry head pops up and blocks her from the camera, and she hears the laugh that lets her breathe fully and deeply at the beginning and end of each day. "Rough day, Princess? You're not looking too good."
She leans around a dog ear. "If you say I'm looking 'ruff', I will not be responsible for my actions."
Monty, she swears, hmphs slightly at their teasing and slumps back to the floor, resting his head on his paws. Glancing down at the pup before returning her attention to Deeks, she marvels, "I think he's actually offended."
From across the country, Deeks loosens his tie and sighs. "I'll get to him in a minute. I want to talk to my girl first."
"Oh, crap, I sent her home," Kensi replies, resting her chin on top of her bent knees. She pretends to reach for her cell. "You want me to call her?"
He chuckles and shakes his head and she grins cheekily, wrapping her arms around her calves and just taking in his face for a moment. She watches him note her body language and she sees something she hasn't in a while: his eyes shift back to a year ago, back to the goodbye she wouldn't hear and a hello that, at the time, he just couldn't.
She sits and watches him sleep for a little while. "Burnt Offerings" never comes on the television; instead it's the color commentators after the baseball game as they lament the loss to the Red Sox. His breathing isn't as deep and easy as she'd expect it to be, and his brows start to furrow as his eyes move quickly beneath his lids. She's not sure if she should reach out to him; isn't sure if she trusts herself with him enough to do so.
She left him in that warehouse; had been forced to leave him in the hospital. And still he'd come to her rescue, even – especially - when she was unsure there was anything worthy of salvage.
They swallow failure like fire; they know how it moves, how it breathes, how it scars. Normally they are each other's salve; they are the healing in the most hurtful and bruised of violet hours.
But now the clock strikes midnight and she is alone in between tolls of condemnation. She's not surprised when the atonement she seeks is nowhere to be found as she curls protectively in on herself; the one person whose arms she wants wrapped around her is fighting his own battles in a place further from her than they've ever been before.
She'd pulled Michelle to safety from the greatest of heights and somehow she can't reach her partner right next to her.
He had said she was his safe place, and she wonders if he's ever been more wrong in his entire life.
He jumps awake as she shifts next to him, his arms swinging out defensively. She catches one fist in the palm of her hand, the other instinctively going to his cheek and guiding his gaze to hers. "It's me. It's just me. You're okay."
His chest is heaving and his eyes slide shut in defeat. The guilt settles itself more comfortably around her shoulders, deepening in color as she adds waking him from what was clearly a long-awaited and wished for sleep to her list of sins. With a small sigh, she prods his fist open gently and slides her fingers through his, lowering them until they rest on his thigh. His eyes open when she tentatively runs a thumb over his cheekbone, and immediately, there's a flash of something on his face that triggers memories of her own: Melissa and Justin, a cover kiss that didn't cover much of anything other than the fault lines in their denials, and the first time they'd both wished for a little more time living the lie.
He tilts his head more firmly into her hand, and as her fingertips stroke through his hair gently, his eyes fall shut again, but so do his shoulders. He relaxes beneath her touch, and she's so, so careful with him that night, holding them in place as they threatened to shatter apart.
Words are hard for them because they traffic in lies; sins are far too easily said. Actions, in their case, are not a cliché but authentic in how they are always – sometimes despite their best efforts – heard, so they don't talk about it in the morning as he pours coffee in a second travel mug and hands it to her before they head to OSP; don't mention it all day until he calls her at 2:13 the next night and breathes shakily on the line just once before she's leaping out of bed, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt and driving barefoot to his place, badge on the dash lest any city cops get any ideas about pulling her over for speeding.
The front door's open when she gets there, and one day she'll realize there's a metaphor in there about how he couldn't open up for Nate or the LAPD shrink but instead – and in spite of everything – could for her, and how that absolution had quietly turned the page into a new chapter of their story. For now, she locks everything away from them, settling her keys on the coffee table before leaning back on the sofa itself, guiding him to her with a gentle hand and keeping watch as he gives in. In her arms he finds solace, and in that, they both find peace.
(They do this every night for a while, including the night where he asks her to pretend it's business as usual when they're working. She understands the need for routine, the need to get back to the black and white lines of the job they do instead of languish in an inscrutable shade of grey. She breaks once and tells him she's glad he's back, and she is, but she's more glad that he knows that she will follow him anywhere – forward into the breach or back into the dark.
The next morning, there is a copy of his house key under her travel mug, and she never returns either.)
She hears his cell buzz and watches as he glances down. She straightens her back a little, trying to roll out the knots that settle in like old friends when she sits this way, and when he returns his attention to her again, asks, "Do you need to go?"
He sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "Waiting on warrants."
She glances at the time again, does a quick time change calculation. "It's almost ten there," she says incredulously. "Why the delay?"
He shrugs, popping the top button of his dress shirt. "Turns out Judge Markaway's idea of 'an hour for dinner on the Hill,'" – she can't help but chuckle at the amount of sarcasm he's able to roll into a set of air quotes – "lasts about three. But we should have them within the hour."
She smiles. "At least it's not 12 and a half," she offers. "There's always that."
(Later, he calls it a Christmas miracle. She's not so sure about that, but concedes she should have known it was going to be a day for impossibilities when snows in the Middle East that day for the first time in a hundred years.
He calls her a Grinch and she says with hair like that, of course he'd be Cindy Lou Who, but they're both too scared – and too grateful – to even think about comparing a certain Operations Manager to any elf, despite her living on a permanent island of misfit toys.)
He's sliding intel and background reports into his bag and listening to Sam and Callen argue over who's paying for dinner before they head to the Staples Center for the game when he notices an expensive and terrifyingly out of place Waterford crystal tumbler on his desk.
He looks around and sees Hetty watching him with an expression he's not sure he's ever seen on her face before. She holds up a bottle of scotch in invitation, and he leaves the bag but takes the glass, the soles of his shoes echoing a little bit in the quiet early evening of the Mission.
He sets the glass down on her desk and she pours slowly, toasting him silently before taking a long sip. Scotch hasn't really ever been his thing so his own drink is small, but even he'd realized before he'd taken his first step that this has nothing to do with the alcohol. Hetty's swallow is longer, but she's not clocking him; not waiting to see his reaction to the delay. He gets the feeling she's fortifying herself for something, but since she's stronger than platinum and palladium combined, he's on his heels and unprepared when she starts to speak.
"Mr. Deeks," she begins, her low voice hoarse from an exhaustion he thinks she's probably carried longer than he's been alive but that he's never seen before, "I owe you an apology."
The confusion sputters up out of him, but stops well short of his vocal cords. He's only ever heard her be this blunt with Callen, and that was after they'd lost a nuke and she was pissed. They sit in a two-sided silence; his is centered in disbelief, and the longer he glances at her, the more he starts to recognize how some of the shadows are slanting across her weathered face. All cops see the weight of the ghosts when they look in the mirror, and the ones lost hurt almost as much as the ones that never got to be at all.
Given her next words, he realizes she bears that more than any of them, not just because of her age or experience, and realizes being the puppetmaster must be exhausting. She's a Pandora's Box, bearer of the darkest of evils, which she doesn't just see or hear or speak but lives. "I have a lot of blood on my hands, Mr. Deeks. I have…regrets." He shifts slightly in his seat, but before he can think to remind her that they all carry a lot more than those a simple badge on their hip or a gun holstered at their back actually weigh, she lifts her finger slightly from the edge of her scotch and stops him before he can start. "We all do. That's part of what makes us human. But we're meant to learn from what we've lost; from our mistakes. You and Miss Blye…your partnership is not a mistake, and I was wrong to ever think it might be."
He's been angry at her since she sent Kensi away, walking on tenuous feet in his frustration before reverting to acting like he'd returned to the one place where he'd first heard his voice – the courtroom – and asking her pointblank if this was his fault. But oddly, now he finds himself trying to meet her halfway. "I haven't been…in the greatest of headspaces lately," he acquiesces, "and our first duty as a team is to keep each other safe. I understand why you might doubt me right now. I understand why you sent her away, Hetty."
The fierceness with which she shakes her head surprises him. "I do worry about you. I worry about all of you. And I won't lie and say I sent Kensi on that assignment solely because she's the best woman for the job and nothing more." She sighs almost imperceptibly but soldiers on like the warrior she is. "But the fact that you were willing to go back to LAPD – a place you and I both know you no longer fit because your place is here – just to get her back reminded me of what was most important: that I hired you not only because you're a good investigator but also a good man." She pauses, appraising him even more seriously than she normally does. Finally, with a small sigh, she says, "You are valued here, together with Miss Blye, but also apart. That you would doubt that, or yourself, even momentarily because of my actions, grieves me." She clears her throat and finishes the last of her finger of scotch, and when she speaks again, she looks and sounds a little more like the Hetty that, more often than not, scares the shit out of him. "We can depend on so few things in this life as a whole, Mr. Deeks; few things beyond the fact that the sun will rise in the east and set in the west."
His heart leaps at that, but he keeps a straight face. "And that you have excellent taste in scotch."
She chuckles, and it feels a few degrees warmer between them. "I know you know how important the sunshine is," and he immediately understands the reference in her emphasis, feeling lighter when she finishes. "I want you to know that I understand it as well, and that I respect it."
She slides a post-it note with what looks like a log-in name and password on it toward him, and when he realizes the program they're meant to open, his heartbeat triples. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Deeks."
"I won't disappoint you," he says. "We won't. You can trust us."
"I'll hold you to that." She nods toward the bullpen. "You have an appointment to keep."
He all but runs back to his desk, half missing the swivel chair in his haste, and pulls up their video communications access. He types in the admin information and watches as his laptop camera comes into focus.
He sees a landscape of grey momentarily before a rush of movement and two voices. Someone off-screen says, "a gift for you, Miss Congeniality," and then someone's shoved into frame, and he can't help but grin rather stupidly.
Her initial confusion is adorable, and he watches as her eyes focus into realization. "Hi," she breathes, and her smile rivals any brilliance that dances off the mid-morning ocean when he's within its depth.
They'd been so concerned their frozen lake would crack, that they'd falter and drown, and now, looking at her, he wonders how he could have wondered for even a second whether or not he'd be able to swim like hell to stay afloat.
He feels a bit like he's been running his entire life to get to this place.
To get to her.
"Hey," he replies, and he feels the noose loosen. He wants to do a thousand things: stare at her like a lovesick puppy, make sure she's okay, admit to her he's missed her so much he's kept his car radio on the techno station since she's been gone, tell her he called every former gold shield he knew to be working private security in LA trying to track anyone down who may have known what private airport she'd left out of, ready to break every traffic code in the book to get to her before she left…
…that he loves her...
He finally settles on, "So should I say good morning or…"
"It's 0600," she confirms, and in the lower corner of the screen, he sees a bit of steam from what he assumes is a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
"Oh, so you've been up for hours," he says teasingly, and she ducks her head a little bit in embarrassment, both thinking back to how difficult she'd been to rouse the morning after their first night; apparently a traditional alarm clock or even gentle cajoling weren't worthy of Kensi Blye's attention first thing in the morning, but her partner's lips against the pulse point in her wrist as his hand rubbed circles above her hip seemed to work just a little bit better. "Beat up any bad guys yet?"
She feigns confusion. "Bad guys? I'm in line for Disney World."
He chuckles. "I know I can't ask where or why, but you're okay?"
She nods slowly, reassuringly. "I'm good. Plenty of support."
"Yeah, I hear that Captain Hook's real handy with the artillery."
She chuckles, her mouth twitching as she tries not to show just how happy she is, and there's a warm satisfaction in knowing she's doing it in deference to the people on her end rather than hiding it from him. "The boys torturing you?"
"Please," he scoffs.
"Oh, so you've been relegated to Ops with Nell and Eric."
"I will have you know I am a highly valued asset of this agency, Miss Blye."
"Well, you're definitely an ass."
He laughs, and for all the fantasizing he'd done in the quiet hours – for all the words he'd thought he'd say during the moments when he could say nothing at all – this somehow feels like the conversation they were meant to have because it's easy, natural – all things they can be because they've already been forged in fire and cast in iron. They've been tested to the most extreme of outliers, and now they can settle into a medium they'll still undoubtedly have to work at to be happy, but because they've seen and survived the worst of it, they can respect and value the best.
Her dark eyes move over his face, the corner of her mouth still turned upward, and he's almost afraid to breathe, lest she disappear like a mirage. "I tried to get to you before you left," he finally says.
"I tried to wait," she replies, and a peace formerly unknown to him settles within his stomach. No one's ever deemed him worthy enough to chase before. She lowers her voice further, and it's not because she's seeking privacy wherever she is; it sounds like it's not very busy right now. He's intrigued when instead, there's a pink tint of embarrassment to her cheeks, and realizes it's because of the unfamiliar sentimentality she's feeling. "I guess we're just not supposed to say goodbye."
His reply is out before she's barely finished speaking. "Wasn't planning on it."
"How did…how did you arrange all this?" she asks, a delighted twinkle in her eye.
"I told you: highly valued asset of the team."
"Or Hetty."
"You wound me."
"I'm sure Sam would kiss it better if you asked nicely."
"Don't think for a second I won't hang up on you."
She barks a laugh, a more genuine form of the one she'd uttered when the two of them were sitting in front of Hetty during the time they were the Warings. He remembers how she'd twisted the wedding rings around her fingers at first, unused to their weight, and how for days after she'd kept running her thumb over her left hand, bereft from their absence. It was the little things like that – the cronut, the Yummy Yummy Heart Attack – a thousand different things from a thousand different days – that had kept him moving toward her even at his most lost. She'd broken his fall when he'd tumbled from grace; shown the same courage he had in not giving up Michelle to Sidarov when she'd asked him to be patient just a little longer – shown him he was trying.
He'd go to the ends of the earth for this woman, and he'd wait for her to return from them. "Just consider it a Christmas miracle," he finally says, eyes lifting towards Hetty's now empty office, "from someone who wanted us to believe in Santa."
(They sort of awkwardly stare at each other when they're finally reunited, the investigators in them going inert despite the evidence of the other standing in front of them. This is the answer to a hesitant prayer, a promise they whispered so softly for fear of the shattering damage it could cause if broken.
She steps forward first and they're back on a hilltop discussing lack of communication skills, they're a married couple who just can't control themselves, they're a pop star and her manager, they're a broken man called Max and a substitute teacher who can't lead teenagers because she never really got to be one herself. They're back at a beginning, like that day in an MMA gym, and that second kiss – or third, or fourth, or thousandth, she's lost count and is happy to have – fills the spaces that separate them, clicks that last puzzle piece into place, and in the distance, a starter pistol fires in both celebration and acknowledgment of what it's taken to get here.
He never tells her the full content of his conversation with Hetty, and never again is the Operations Manger that open and unguarded with him, but for him, until the days all of them die, honesty with both women is sacrosanct – added to in sickness and in health as the vows he never breaks.)
"What happens if you don't get the warrant tonight?" she asks, picking up a forkful of her food and guiding it toward her mouth.
He groans. "Don't even suggest that. I'm ready to come home."
She smiles gently. "That makes two of us." When Monty protests from the floor, she corrects, "Three."
"You still available to pick me up at the airport?"
She pretends to think about it. "Don't know. Might have better things to do, like wash my hair."
The smile he gives her doesn't really meet his eyes, and she gives him a moment, knowing he's still weighing her earlier comment. He wants this to be over more than he's probably wanted most things in his investigative life. He'd been asked to be part of a task force to shut down a child trafficking sex ring, and given his history working such cases with both LAPD and NCIS, Hetty had acquiesced. He'd been confused at the request at first, but Kensi had understood; there were few cops with his experience, but even fewer with his outlook. He understood multiple sides of such cases; the legal and the human costs.
Not to mention the fact that he's the biggest kid any of them know, despite the fact he has the history some of these kids will face as their futures. There's no greater advocate she can think of; he's had her back for so long now that it only seems fair to share him. She just wishes she was there to be an ally and an asset, to be the one he can fall into when the horrors of what people do to each other cuts him off at the knees; be the one that reminds him tomorrow is another day, and if he can change one child's morning into one of safety and serenity, he's accomplished more in one evening raid than most people will in a lifetime.
She's finishing with the ME at a residential crime scene in Laurel Canyon late on a Friday when her partner comes bursting into the house, hurriedly throwing the heavy door from the garage to the kitchen. It hits the wall behind it hard enough that the glass in the windows rattles a little bit, and Kensi looks up, startled. "Are you okay?"
He holds up a child's booster seat, and Kensi's heart rate doubles. "Found it in the car."
He starts trying to re-clear the house while she radios to Nell and Eric to find out why their unmarried victim would have such an item in her possession. As she waits for the reply, she looks around; there are no toys visible, no sign a child lived there.
The small toy box tucked neatly in the corner catches her eye at the same moment Nell confirms their victim has a two-year-old niece named Amelia. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, and from the look on Deeks' face, similar thoughts are racing through his mind at burning speed. Though their victim's only been dead for a few hours, a non-witnessed non-family abduction will be notoriously difficult to trace. She tells Ops to get ready to call the cavalry and to check the traffic cams in the area for anything suspicious; they'll need a car description for an AMBER Alert while Deeks starts to re-clear the house alongside the original responding local officers.
His eyes move quickly as they assess holds up his index finger about halfway down the hall, eyes moving quickly around the rooms as they assess. Finally, he holds up a closed fist and turns his head, straining to listen. All she can hear is her own heartbeat and the hum of the air conditioner, and glances at her partner to see what's made him stop.
And then she hears it.
A single shuffle, like someone scuffing their shoe against the floor. Her eyes fly upward, and they realize there's a crawlspace above them. The cord's been ripped off and discarded, and she realizes the aunt must've known her killers, must've known their intentions, if she'd stashed her niece and ripped all identifying marks from the latch.
The investigation is put on hold as Deeks draws the door down. A small ladder opens, and then sleepy blue eyes and tousled blonde bedhead peer down at them. They all breathe a sigh of relief, and she spots Deeks as he holsters his gun and climbs the steps.
His voice is soft when he holds out his hands to the toddler, but she backs quickly away and starts to whimper in fear.
Kensi tugs on his pant leg and in a flash he's hopping down and she's replacing him on the ladder. It's musty and hot in the small attic space, and she can see that Amelia's face is quite red. She offers a smile of her own and Amelia appraises her seriously, sticking her thumb in her mouth as she thinks. Finally, she reaches back to Kensi, and the agent is able to get her and bring her safely back down.
Kensi shifts Amelia on her hip to a slightly more comfortable position – though with her lack of experience, she's not quite sure there's a way this won't be awkward – and the little girl buries herself closer to the brunette, winding her arms around Kensi's neck and holding on for dear life.
She glances helplessly at Deeks, who lifts one shoulder in a shrug, but it's the damn twinkle in his eye and the even more damnable cheeky grin on his face that annoy her most. He is loving this.
She, on the other hand, not so much.
(It's not terrible or anything. Amelia's quieted and has drawn her little quilt toward her and the way her baby knuckles bend is kind of adorable, but she's Kensi fucking Blye, for God's sake. She's rocket launchers on the shoulder, gun in hand and two more on the back, taking out bad guys one door jamb at a time, not ducks on baby blankets and Gerber applesauce.
There shouldn't be a warm question of what if settling in her stomach; no glance spared to her partner and an idle thought that she hopes their daughter has her hair and his eyes, and certainly not a question of what song he'd be singing at three AM when he's pacing a nursery trying to soothe a newborn tucked against his bare chest.)
She starts walking Amelia back toward the living room when Deeks' phone rings in his back pocket. When they reach the toy box, she tries to put Amelia down, the little girl screeching in protest.
It sounds like a klaxon fired at warp speed, and she decides then and there that Deeks gets the midnight runs; she's horrible enough on no sleep, and she can't imagine how grating she'd be alongside a fussy baby. She's able to maneuver both of them into a sitting position, and Amelia seems satisfied to find something to play with as long as Kensi stays close, and running a hand over the baby's soft hair, Kensi wonders just how much the poor child witnessed.
The ache that settles in her heart at the thought surprises her in its ferocity. Not just for Amelia's wellbeing, but her own. She hears Deeks coming – always does; it's a little bit noticeable when your other half is absent – and finds herself truly, actively wondering at whether or not this will be her life one day.
Whether or not she wants it to be isn't the issue anymore. Not since him.
Not since them.
He leans against the wall and watches her with Amelia, who's carefully pulling every toy from the box and setting it down beside them only to reload the plastic container as though it's the most fascinating experiment in the history of mankind. Kensi can't help but smile at her determination and joy when everything fits back just right, and she makes an exaggerated happy face when Amelia turns to her for approval. "Good job!" she says in a higher pitched tone than she normally takes, taking her hands from keeping Amelia steady to clap for her. The baby sways and immediately Kensi's hands are on either side of her small body, ready to catch her if she falls.
The air shifts behind them and she knows Deeks – the first one in whom she'd put that trust, unequivocally and unbreakably – has come to crouch next to them. He keeps a bit of distance so as not to alarm Amelia again, but Kensi still feels his breath on the back of her neck. His hand ghosts up and down her back before staking its claim on her hip. "You're doing really great with her," he says, his voice a delicious murmur.
"Don't sound so surprised. I've dealt with kids before."
"Older kids," he corrects gently. "And even then you needed a bit of a hand."
She shakes her head in incredulity. "You sat on the couch and watched the Clippers game while I played 'Pretty Pretty Princess.' That doesn't constitute 'help.'"
"Tinkerbell green is so not my color. Offer me Belle and we'll talk." There's something deeper in his eyes, something almost infinite, and he runs his tongue over his lips as he weighs whether or not he wants to say it; whether he wants to ask about their potential future children, about arguments over bath times and bedtimes and sleep schedules and chores and curfews.
He wants to ask her where this is going, if they're going to continue on a road that hasn't always been made of yellow bricks, but one that they know is at least going in the right direction – even if they haven't talked about the ultimate destination.
And then, she realizes as Amelia starts to dance to a song only she can hear, they don't need to. They don't need careful anymore. They just need each other.
Their histories are not made of halcyon days; they are instead connected by the huge holes they have, ones through which they could lose themselves if they aren't careful. It's daunting; terrifying, even. She's not embarrassed to admit she's scared. Hell, fewer things on Earth are faster than her ability to run, particularly from him, where she could slip and slide to a safe distance on roads paved with classic Hollywood goodbyes. But though her fear may have stopped her from moving forward in the beginning, it has never stopped her from paying attention. She's never missed the defining moments, the concrete and rebar that fit together to make their foundation, chief amongst them all the moment when she realized that this thing, this thing she once thought might break her in two, was in actuality the thing that might mend both of them in the end.
(Plus, there's something about the look in his eye as he watches the two girls play that tells her he believes in her ability to be a mother – even without having one for a long time – enough for the both of them, and it rocks her like the ocean her surfer so worships.
It goes without saying what a tremendous DILF he'd be.)
Still, given their penchant for never saying what they mean, she wants to make sure. She starts to make a quip about mutant baby ninja assassins and then stops herself, because for her, this goes beyond anything they've said in jest or could laugh off later. This is about saying vows with a gold band instead of the gold shield that rests at her hip; making promises as they lead each other into the dark – promises that she'd still be by his side once they reemerged into the sunshine. This is about showing she's not only learned how phrases can heal and wound and enslave and emancipate, but that she understands the importance of taking the ricochet that he is to her, that shot she never expected, and recalculating their trajectory to the right target.
This is about showing she is here until the road runs out; that she is giving all of herself to him, even the pieces she didn't know existed – the pieces that didn't exist before him, before everything they've survived together, before everything that makes her grateful he's still here.
"You told me once," she begins slowly, "that I was your safe place."
He tenses immediately beside her, and she reaches for his hand, clasping it tightly and making their wrists touch. She can feel his heartbeat against hers, and knows he feels the same, and waits as his rigidity relaxes, her eyes never leaving his even as he tries to duck her insistent gaze. "That's still true. That will always be true. This partnership? It goes both ways and it goes all ways. I am in this, Deeks. I am so in this. The rest? That's just details."
The grin lights his face more than the afternoon sun filtering through the windows that surround them. He looks like he's about to steal a kiss when there's a knock on the still open front door. CPS has come to take custody of Amelia until her mother can get to her from downtown, but Kensi finds herself waving the on-call worker off, preferring to keep an eye on such precious cargo herself.
(She doesn't worry about her heart or their future after that, because she entrusted that to Deeks a long, long time ago.)
There's a sudden burst of movement behind him, and he turns to receive the news. She knows the warrants have finally come through, and they'll be screeching out of the hotel parking lot in less than five minutes.
She watches him pull his tac gear on, hears the crunch of the Velcro as it tightens around the same waist her arms do, and she swallows the discomfort that rises from watching him get ready to go and not being at his side. She knows he's capable, knows he's got that thing about his trusty Beretta, but ultimately it's her that's supposed to be at his back, not the wind or the chance she'll get caught again between a door and a we regret to inform you.
At this point, he wishes she'd just punch him again.
He finds her beating the crap out of a weight bag in the gym, uttering no sound even as she lands her punches. She is silent, seething, her entire body rigid and defensive, and his stomach is heavy, leaded.
Deathly silent. Worriedly silent.
Hell hath no fury like Kensi Marie Blye when she finally blows, and this is clear the decks and man the battle stations silent.
Still, he has to try. "I'm fine," he says for the thousandth time, and when her cross lands again, she grunts, and he decides to use it as a stepping stone to get back to her. "I'm completely fine."
She pants as she lowers her fists, and the chain on the bag squeaks in solidarity. "The problem is, Deeks," she replies hoarsely, "is that I'm not."
"I didn't have a choi—"
She whirls on him like a dancer in a spotlight. "Do not sit there and tell me you didn't have a choice," she seethes. "Do. Not."
He takes a long, deep, slow breath, blowing it out before replying. "Kens—"
She swats at the sweaty hair pressed against her cheek and licks her lips, trying to decide how much of this conversation she wants to have, and whether she wants to have any of it here. She looks at him for a long moment, weighing their promise for talking and tolerance, and finally starts. "I know what would have happened to you," she says quietly, worrying her lip. "I know that if you hadn't disarmed it, I wouldn't have a bod—" She can't even bring herself to finish the sentence. "I know what you would've gone through, what you would've thought and felt and…" She trails off, shaking her head. "We're supposed to do this together," she reminds him. "You promised."
He thinks back to earlier that morning, in a silo of fertilizer and countdowns, crouching in front of it as the others evacuated the area as quickly as they could. She'd run interference, quite literally, sprinting between Callen and Sam outside and him in front of something that could blow them all to kingdom come.
She'd put a hand on his shoulder as the timer reached 30 seconds. "Deeks, we have to go!"
There were blue wires connected to orange and one white, one last chance the color of salvation and in the palm of his hand, and he'd counterbalanced her insistent tugging as he tried to rewire it. "I've almost got it!"
"Deeks, we have to go now!"
He couldn't leave. Not now, not when he was this close. SWAT and the bomb squad were too far out to help, and hundreds of people were caught in the potential crossfire. And as much as the anguish in her voice was killing him, their first priority is to live the credo: serve and protect. Still, he couldn't help urging her to defy her training, defy the good nature she's somehow hung on to despite everything she's been through. "Kensi, go!"
The intensity of her reply wasn't what cut him; it was the disbelief between the words that he thought she'd even consider it. "Not without you!"
He'd risked a second to glance over his shoulder, and looks up at her, wondering if she actually knows that he was fine if this had been the end; that the only thing he's ever really hoped for was that her face was the last thing he'd ever see. "I love you," he'd said, finding the quiet in the chaos, and the flash of emotion that crossed her face - the love, the anger, the triumph and the losses – guides him back to keep trying to disarm the bomb as she had him. She'd saved him in that gym, in that bullpen, in that laser room, in that warehouse, and in his own demons. He'd returned the favor, the little boy inside finding her little girl lost because he knew exactly where to look.
She'd crouched down next to him then, fire in her voice. "Then disarm the fucking bomb!"
And he had.
Afterwards, she looked at him like she was torn between wanting to kiss him and beat the crap out of him. She'd been quiet on the way back to the Mission, staring out at the scenery along the road home, and had disappeared to the gym pretty quickly after they'd arrived back, saying she'd write her after-action report later.
He'd given her a half-hour or so and then approached yet another livewire, his favorite, even if it occasionally triggered. "It's my job," he finally says with a shrug that's only half apologetic. "This is what we do."
She sighs again. "I know. It's just…you told me to go."
It had been an instinctual response, one for which he can't really summon the strength to apologize. "I was trying to protect you."
She takes a half-step toward him. "My place is with you. Beside you. No matter what."
He presses a kiss to her forehead and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he murmurs into her hair.
"Then don't ever say that to me again."
He chuckles against her hair. "Done." He squeezes her despite her sweat, and a devious smile spreads across the top of her hair. Beside him, she shakes her head. "No."
"I didn't even say anything!"
She steps back to their agreed upon safe working distance and rolls her eyes. "I know you. Not here." She readjusts her gloves and faces the punching bag once again.
He's about to protest when she throws him a heated look and he hears her emphasis on 'here', and he's never been more excited for five o'clock to come.
He nods at her on the screen, and she returns it. The conversation is unspoken but cutting in its clarity. Be careful. Always.
"I owe you a date night," he says with a wink, trying to defuse the situation, and she shakes her head.
"You just want to see…" she trails off, raising her eyebrows in suggestion, and laughs heartily at his enthusiastic nod.
She hears him calling from the living room. "We're going to be late!"
She takes a step back and examines herself. Long black dress with draping that exposed much of her back – an area on her body that held particular fascination for the exasperated man waiting on her? Check. Hair soft and up, small diamond droplet earrings borrowed from her mom? Check. Finally going to an event where she wouldn't have to chase a suspect or get shot at? Check.
Silk garters she knows will drive him nuts tonight during the 'after party'? Double check.
She wipes a small line of lipstick from beneath her bottom lip and after one final assessment, joins Deeks at their front door.
She carefully traverses the boxes they have yet to unpack; it's a maze almost as complex as the one that led them here. But she steps with expert feet and picks up her bag from the breakfast bar situated between their kitchen and small dining space. "Ready."
He turns to look at her, and his breath audibly catches in his throat. His jaw falls open a little bit, and the spark of warmth that shoots through her veins makes her smile shyly. "Okay?"
He has to clear his throat twice before he can answer. "Uh, yeah. Very okay. Very, very okay."
She chuckles and murmurs her thanks when he drapes a small jacket over her shoulders. He leans down to kiss her cheek and nuzzles her ear for a minute. Her eyes slide shut at the contact, and the fire in her belly threatens to explode into a conflagration. "You look stunning."
She smiles, turning her head so her lips graze his cheek. "You don't look so bad yourself."
"Why do we have to go to this thing again?"
She laughs softly. "Because Aubrey has done a wonderful thing and wants us to be part of it."
He sighs and straightens, pressing one more kiss to her temple before reaching for the door. He keeps his hand extended for her, making sure she doesn't trip over the hem of her dress as they descend the three small stairs in front of the bungalow that still has the sold sign on it. They can hear the ocean in the distance, whispering 'have a good time , and for one split second, everything in the world is still and right.
Aubrey Darva has blossomed from party girl to philanthropist, working with her father's connections to build an outreach program for returning vets. She meets them at the door, still blonde and bubbly. She's still the only one-time suspect Kensi has ever hugged, and it feels good to repeat the gesture.
Aubrey's enthusiasm is infectious, and Kensi finds herself grinning as they embrace. "Oh, I'm so glad you could come!" the younger woman exclaims. "And just look at you! You're gorgeous!"
Deeks is looking around the room, a benefit to run the shelter and assistance programs but answers unbidden. "She certainly is." He ghosts a hand across the exposed skin near the small of Kensi's back and says, "I'll go get us some drinks."
Kensi nods, and as soon as he's gone, Aubrey loops her arm through Kensi's, almost giddy. "When did that happen?"
Kensi laughs. "A while ago."
"Love at first coffee cup on the forehead?" Aubrey asks, a lilted giggle in her voice.
For all the tripping over words she's done in the years past that moment, the words come extraordinarily easy. "It wasn't. And that's what makes it all worth it."
He looks at her as though she's the moon and he's in devoted orbit, and they are happy to let the stars stare. It doesn't matter what kind of debris crashes into them, what kind of damage it leaves; they are their best and worst selves together. They are safe in their little universe, and the gravitational pull is far too strong for either of them to let go.
(They dance that night, mingle with normal people and act normal themselves. It's funny how strange it feels, but it also straightens her back a little bit to know they've come to rest in a place where they can balance the on- and off-hours; where they can be both cop and civilian and still be the best.
It's a balancing act; a rhythm that sometimes falls out of sync, but physics and the ties that bind will always draw them back together. They'll always find that rhythm, find that road home. She looks around a beautifully decorated room to an equally beautiful man and memorizes the comfort, the certainty; settles against it.
This is the culmination of the silence, of wielding the words, of finding a future and reaching for it. Of fighting for it, of making sure it works and fixing it when it doesn't.
It's something to believe in.)
He nods one more time, a gesture she returns. They both reach to close the laptops, him whispering a goodbye. "See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow." The and every day after that for as long as I live is understood.
fin
You survived! Here's your souvenir t-shirt. Thanks so much for reading. I hope it was worth it.