It's an addiction.
It's the only way she can explain it.
He drives her insane at work. She knows he does it on purpose. It only makes it that much more frustrating when she succumbs, going to him every night.
She's not sure how it began.
One thing just led to another.
She never really understood people when they used that expression, because as far as she was concerned, one thing doesn't just lead to another, you either let things happen or you don't.
She understands now.
It was just another night, unwinding after a case. Beer bottles and take out containers littered her coffee table, and all of a sudden his lips were on hers (or her lips were on his) and she just didn't stop it.
She hadn't expected him to be so hard to resist.
Not that she'd ever tell him that.
He'd get that cocky little smirk on his face that she would never be able to wipe off.
She's never done drugs, but she thinks this is what it probably feels like. The high, the inability to stop, needing a fix on a regular basis.
So, yeah, she thinks it must be an addiction. That he must be an addiction.
He's already smirking when he opens the door, and she knows he was expecting her. It's now become a rarity that she doesn't end up on his doorstep by the end of the night.
"Hi there, princess," he says, and she rolls her eyes.
Most of the time, she doesn't know how she tolerates him. But then that smirk will become this little smile, and coupled with this look in his eyes… It takes all of her willpower not to melt.
God help her.
She pushes past him, and he shuts the door softly.
"I wasn't sure you were coming," he says, nodding toward the time, illuminated on his oven.
"I wasn't either," she replies honestly.
"I was worried about you today," he tells her, and there's that look again. His eyes get all round and earnest, and she has to look away to stop herself from saying something stupid. Or rather, admitting the truth.
Sometimes I think I'm in love with you.
"When that guy took you…"
"Deeks," she warns, mostly because she doesn't want to discuss it with him. It's not why she came.
"Kens," he returns, sighing. "I'm afraid that this thing between us is clouding my judgement. That it's preventing me front having your back to the best of my ability."
"Deeks," she's surprised by his words, and she can't keep it out of her voice.
"I mean, it's always you. Today, it's the guy with the bomb, and a few weeks ago it was that guy in the club, and before that it was-"
"Stop," she strokes a hand across his cheek, and he exhales.
"I hate that it's always you. I'm afraid I'm not doing my job."
"Deeks, it's not your fault. I'm always the bait," she tells him.
It's the truth. Being the only female agent means that she's always the one putting on these tiny little dresses and caking on makeup to distract and or bait the suspect, and that usually means that she's the first one in the line of fire if things go wrong.
"I don't think Sam or Callen would look as good as I do in heels and a dress. You might be able to pull it off, though," she smirks, moving closer to him, her lips now only a breath away from his.
"Aw, thanks. Glad to see someone's noticing my potential," he smiles.
"You're a good partner, Deeks," she says. "It's not your fault, it's just the job."
"Some days I don't like this job," he admits, and she nods.
That's what it comes down to, really. That some days this job just sucks, and she likes to know that he's still alive. That they're still alive.
She kisses him, her lips brushing against his so softly that his eyes snap open in surprise. They are never soft, never gentle. Usually they're passionate and angry, but tonight is different. He can see it in her eyes as she pulls away, and he looks down at her with adoration.
Sometimes he wishes that they'd met in another life. Or maybe just earlier in life, when he was in law school and she was … wherever she was. Maybe then they could have had a normal, traditional life. Maybe they'd have a couple of kids by now, a house with a picket fence and two dogs.
But instead, they have this perfectly imperfect arrangement, where no words are spoken but the feelings are expressed. At least he thinks they are.
It's the moments afterwards that he treasures, where she's in a haze of sex and exhaustion, where she'll let him run his fingers through her hair, or press kisses to her shoulder. Where they are just Kensi and Marty, no guns, no badges, no covers to uphold, no parts to play. Where she lets herself be vulnerable and she lets him see it.
"Sometimes I think I love you," she mumbles, and he tries not to react. She's in that moment just before she succumbs to sleep, this blissful smile on her face and her eyes closed as he trails a hand up and down her back slowly.
"Yeah," he responds softly, unsure whether she is still awake. "Me too."
By morning her carefully prepared defences are in place. She watches him, head resting on the pillow, completely dead to the world, and she dresses quietly.
This is what they do.
This thing that they have isn't allowed during the day, when the sun is up to illuminate and witness it all. Only in the darkness, in the shadows, where they can deny and pretend
She turns on the coffee pot for him and leaves the house. She has to get home and get ready for work, so they can do this all over again.
