I'm calling this practice.

As many of you are probably well aware my muse has been in the ICU for almost a year now. In fact, I think it's like 18 months. Sometimes, there's great improvement and she's upgraded and moved to a regular room and bed. Unfortunately, this hasn't been par for the course.

So I'm calling this practice, because I'm not sure I like it and I'm not sure it's even coherent. And because I most definitely should not be working on oneshots with the myriad of other stuff to do. I'm not even going to make you guys promises on updates or anything like that. There's a whole lot of stuck going around.

Worry Can Wait 'Til Morning

It's weird.

She doesn't want it to be, but it totally is.

She just ate some bad fish. It's Deeks' fault – though an accident – because he'd wheedled her until she promised to try a new food truck with him. She's paying for it now, her and her knowledge of Deeks' terrible choice in food trucks, but that doesn't explain why he's here.

More than that, it doesn't explain why he's here, on her couch, cuddled up behind her and rubbing her aching stomach.

It's terrifyingly domestic, and while yeah, she'd say they have a capital-t Thing, it doesn't translate into domesticity. Hell, she's barely domestic in her down time. Her apartment's a mess, she can't remember the last time she did laundry and she's pretty sure there's a caked on mess in her sink that's growing new mold. She is not domestic.

Yet, she's still against him, relaxed as they let the flickering of late night television lull them into a state of mindlessness. It's nice, she admits, her eyes fluttering closed. He's got one arm propping his head up while the other slides slowly and firmly over her stomach. The warmth is helping with her cramping muscles and she's loathe to make him stop.

Still, sleeping together is different from this. They can both pretend there's no emotion, that it doesn't mean anything, that they're scratching an itch, but the moment he let himself into her apartment – not that he has a key, because that screams a whole bunch of things she doesn't want it to – they'd both known things were changing.

Or had changed.

Crap, she has no idea.

She wants to be upset. She should be nervous. She should be concerned about what this means, about what it looks like. She should have pushed him out the door the minute he'd shown up, not allowed him to guide her to the couch. Hell, she'd barely put up a fight. And it's weird, it is, because they barely cuddle after sex. They're certainly cuddling now, she knows, because her hand is over his, the other one tucked beneath her cheek. She's curved against all his hard angles and yet she can't feel any sort of heat beyond the way his hand is soothing her stomach.

"I can hear you thinking."

It makes her jump, and he chuckles behind her. It's a warm sound, a content sound, and it shouldn't be. It most definitely shouldn't be. Because they're just a thing, they're not an r-word and seriously?!

"Kens. Stop. You'll give yourself a headache."

But she can't stop. It's there, circling, that this is more and different and all the things it wasn't supposed to be because neither of them are long-term people – they can't be in their line of work – and she hasn't even let herself start going down that road. She sure as hell doesn't appreciate being shoved down it. Not that she's fighting hard, granted and –

"You shouldn't be here."

He doesn't even jolt. "You're sick."

"It's just bad fish. Not the first time. Not the last."

He doesn't reply. Eventually, she turns to her back, feeling his hand continue to move against her stomach. "I'm fine, Callen."

He shrugs and won't meet her gaze. And if she didn't know him as well as she did, she'd be worried. As it stands, she can read the little expressions in his face. "Callen?"

"Look, Kens, you're sick. Being sick by yourself sucks. So I'm here."

Where he doesn't need to be. Where he shouldn't be. Where him being here means so much more, so many scary things.

"Do you want me to go?"

Her negative response is out of her mouth before she even realizes she's opened her mouth and it's the first time his hand stops moving. She knows the questions on his face. She can see his thoughts moving.

"Kens-"

"I'm sick," she interrupts, trying to keep the panic at bay. "I- I'm just sick. You're just- I'm sick. And it sucks. So it doesn't suck so much with someone else here."

I'm sick and you're here because I'm sick. That's it. That's all.

It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to mean anything. It won't mean anything. In the morning, they'll wake up and it'll all be back to the way it was.

Heat.

Lust.

Denial.

It works for them.

She closes eyes, overwhelmed and confused and in pain because God, she's never letting Deeks pick the food truck again. Her stomach churns uncomfortably but her eyes fly open when she feels his lips on her temple, then just beside her eye, then her cheek.

"Sleep, Kens."

We'll panic in the morning.

And much to her surprise, his breath in her ear, his hand against her stomach and her mind swirling, she drops to sleep.