A/N: Hi again, guys! This is my...sixth story in the NCIS: Los Angeles fandom. SIXTH! What a record. Also, this is the first story which has ever posted on the first day following the completion of another story. AND it's my first truly tragic multi-chapter story. Wow, this fic's breaking all sorts of personal records.
Anyway, this will be narrated from Kensi's POV, and it's set seven years in the future, around the year 2019. And fair warning: this story is my angstiest to date. You'll see why.
And now, without further ado, let me present...Ain't No Sunshine.
Ain't No Sunshine
Chapter One: Return
Condemned.
That's what the sign says. And for the first time in my life, I believe it.
This old hacienda has always been run-down and faded on the outside, but on the inside, it is bustling and modern and high-tech and…homey.
At least, it used to be. Now, however…
I sigh to myself as I stare out of my car window at it. For the first time ever, I actually see what everyone else sees – a crumbling, dusty old ruin.
An abandoned building.
The word hurts. Abandoned. As if it had never been alive, never known laughter, never housed people. As if I had never worked in it, never smiled in it, never talked in it.
Something warm and tingly prickles the corner of my eyes, but there is no moisture. There is no room for tears, anymore.
It takes me several minutes of intense debate before I finally get out of the car and take those first, tentative steps back to the place that was home.
It takes several more minutes for me to muster the will to unlock the chain on the door and enter.
And it hurts. God, it hurts more than I ever thought it would.
Everything's the same. Every tiny, insignificant thing. The windows are shuttered, so the sun is barely filtering through; the floor is carpeted with more dust than you would believe; and the walls are dingy with dirt – but everything is still exactly the same as we – as I – left it.
It's hard to believe, after all these years, that nothing has changed – because of course, everything has.
Slowly, painfully, I make my way over to that place – the bullpen that was our space. The four desks are there, just like they've been since Hetty rearranged them. The chairs are neatly pushed in, just like Hetty insists they should be – except mine and his, which are angled halfway as if we're sitting in them. The inbox trays are still sitting there, still with some papers in them. With trembling hands I reach out to mine and pick up one sheet, blowing the dust off.
It's nothing important – they would never leave any classified information behind – but it's like a blow to my core, and I have to sit down at the desk that used to be mine. Because there, on that dusty sheet of old paper, is the last expense report I ever filled. It still bears my signature, an illegible scrawl that no one can really read penned in the bottom right corner.
I don't know how long I stay there, holding that paper…but eventually I put it away and climb up the stairs. Each step I take raises a cloud of dust, and it reminds me just how empty the place really is now.
If the bullpen was like memory lane, the ops room is a veritable ghost town. Everything – and I do mean everything – is the same. The computers are still there; the chairs, the keyboards, the wires…if I didn't know any better, I'd expect Eric and Nell to come along any minute now to fire it up for the day.
Except, of course, they won't.
I can't believe it's been seven years since I've been here. Everything's so similar to the way it was when I left.
So similar, and yet so different.
A noise from downstairs sets off alarm bells in my head, and I automatically reach for my gun, ready to defend myself. After all these years, after everything that's happened, at least that still hasn't changed one bit.
The person downstairs turns out not to be an enemy, but a very familiar figure – one who has as much right as I do to be here.
"Easy," Deeks says. "It's just me."
I lower my gun in acknowledgment of his claim and tuck it back into my waistband. He looks around with a sad, nostalgic light in his eyes – the same look I imagine is in mine.
"Hard to believe this was once OSP, isn't it?" he remarks. He's trying to be casual and light – but I can sense the sorrow under his tone.
"Yeah," I agree.
It is hard to believe – especially since with him here, I can pretend to forget that the past seven years actually happened. With him here, it's like we're alone in the bullpen, just waiting for the others to come in.
But even he can't totally convince me. He used to be young, humorous, light-hearted – he used to live for the perfect surf at the beach, or for the thrill of picking up a hot girl. He used to crack a joke in every other sentence. But now he's become more mature – and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, because even though I used to wish he'd just grow up, I find I miss those days when he annoyed me.
Deeks must have noticed the sad spark in my eyes, because the next second he says softly, "Shall we have that meeting, then?"
I nod in agreement, even though sitting in a stuffy room at the LAPD station is the last thing I feel like doing. He surprises me with his next words, though.
"I know this place on Pacific Avenue that opened up a couple years ago," he offers. "They make a mean raspberry-jelly, sugar-powdered doughnut."
I can't help but smile as he rattles off my favorite doughnut. "It's a date, then," I assent.
He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I realize what I've said. Before he can say anything corny, like I know he's going to, I tell him, "Don't even think about it."
He holds up his hands in a 'Who, me? I wasn't going to' gesture, but I can see he's repressing a smile as we lock up the empty office and leave.
We sit and make small talk until our doughnuts (plus coffee) arrive, but the conversation doesn't really start up until he asks me, "So how've you been, Kensi?"
I sigh as I ponder how to respond to that question. There's so many things I could say, so many emotions I could pour out – but I settle on the most generic answer.
"I've been okay," I say. He nods in understanding. He's been okay too, like me. Not too bad, but not good, or fine, either.
The unspoken words between us take me back to that day – that horrible, awful day – when we lost a key part of the team.
It was a high-risk op, but we knew that going in. He knew that going in.
It didn't make a difference – not when it counted. Most of that day is a blur to me now, but I can clearly remember when he was shot – right in the chest. Just once – but once was enough.
I can remember how he collapsed on the ground, bleeding more than I would have thought possible. I can remember what it felt like to not be able to breathe even though there was nothing to stop me from doing so. I can remember his blood staining my fingers as I pleaded over and over again for him to hang on. I can remember his final "I love you" to me, full of the emotions he held, but so, so weak.
Worst of all, I can remember that final, excruciating moment when he slipped away forever. When the man known as G Callen left us for the last time.
I stuck around long enough for the funeral, and then I left. I handed in my resignation through the mail – Hetty got it the day after I skipped town with nothing but my car and a bag full of some basic essentials and my most prized possessions.
There was no way I could have stayed, after that day. I had to get away from the memories, from the life that could have been.
Leaving had its consequences, though. Since I was no longer a part of OSP, I lost contact with everybody there. I'm not sure I wanted to keep in touch, anyway. They were my family, but unfortunately, they were also part of the problem. They were part of the life I had left behind, the life that never would be.
I ran as far away as I could while still remaining in the country I called home. That meant the East Coast, so I moved to Philadelphia. Undercover was what I was good at, but I couldn't return to NCIS – so I joined the CIA instead. I signed up as a spy, and they sent me all over the world on undercover missions. That was good – it helped me get away from the past (thankfully, I never ran into Trent Kort).
That is, until I got a letter from Leon Vance.
Vance isn't the director of NCIS anymore – he moved up to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. But he still has a soft spot for the agency. That letter he sent me brought up painful memories, and brought me back to Los Angeles for a very personal reason.
When I touched down in LAX, Deeks was waiting for me. He gave me a hug and a smile as we said hello for the first time in seven years. Then he told me he had something to do back at the precinct, but we would have our necessary meeting later.
And then, for some reason, I had a sudden urge to go see the old office, even though I knew it had been closed down years ago, so I asked Deeks if he could get me a key. He did.
And that brings us back to where we are.
"What've you been doing this past seven years?" Deeks asks, pulling my attention back to him. With a small sigh, I briefly outline my wanderings since I left L.A.
After I finish, we sit in silence for a few more minutes, drinking our coffee and eating our doughnuts. Now it's time to get to the heart of the meeting.
"So…" I begin, unsure how to start. "You got Jenson?"
Deeks' face hardens as he nods. "Yeah. LAPD caught him two weeks ago." He snorts. "We all thought that would be the end, but…" He shrugs. I sigh.
One reason the memory of that fateful day is so painful – aside from the obvious – is that the guy who killed Callen managed to escape getting caught. Ordinarily, I would have stayed until we got the bastard, but Callen meant too much to me – to have him ripped away like that…I had to go away.
That is, until Vance's letter informed me of Jenson's capture by LAPD. Jenson was the guy we were supposed to burn during that op, but – unfortunately – he wasn't the one who killed Callen. But he knows things – important things that could help us catch the guy who did. The most important of which is the name of the man I will hate for the rest of my life: Jason Baxter.
After seven years, we finally have a name for the lowlife who robbed us of Callen. Only one problem: he's disappeared off the face of the earth. So now I've got to reassemble the team and we've got to figure out where he is, hunt him down, and make him pay.
"Anyway," Deeks goes on, "Jenson confessed to being hired by Baxter to set up Callen – apparently Callen put his brother in jail or something – but he couldn't tell us where Baxter actually is."
"And that's my job?"
"That's our job," he corrects me.
I smile slightly, because he's right. It's not just me who's being pulled back by Vance to solve this case. It's everyone.
And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. Sam, Eric, and Nell are in on this too – they just don't know they are yet. Vance put me in charge and left it up to me to gather the team.
No one's been able to locate Hetty yet, so that's the first order of business. We can't possibly proceed on this case – especially this case – without her.
But before I get to that, it's my turn to ask what's been going on; I'm aching to know what happened after I left, so I question Deeks, and he fills me in.
"Hetty retired a few years after…after it happened," he tells me. I sigh. I guess I knew she would, eventually…first Sullivan, then Dom, then Callen…it would have been too much for any supervisor.
"Sam resigned about a month after the funeral," Deeks continues. "He couldn't take it, you know – Callen being his partner and all…"
I nod understandingly. I know all too well.
"He went back to the Navy…administration branch, somewhere in D.C. He told me he'd had enough of gunfights."
I smile ruefully. Of course he had.
"So, since he was gone, and you'd left…well, there wasn't a team anymore," Deeks continues. "I tried to stick it out, but, well…" He sighs, but I don't blame him. There wasn't really a chance that the team could still exist after Callen died. "Hetty told me to go. I didn't want to leave her alone, but she told me I was wasting my time. I went back to LAPD with her blessing."
"Eric and Nell stayed, though, right?" I inquire. I understand why everyone would scatter – but my heart aches at the thought of Hetty slogging through her final working years alone.
"Yeah," he replies. "They stayed…right until Hetty retired. After that, OSP just kind of…fell apart. I don't know – it's like…the agents couldn't synchronize anymore, and there was no one to hold them together…"
"Callen always said Hetty was the one who kept OSP together," I agree, hiding the pain I still feel whenever I say his name.
"Yeah…" Deeks must have noticed my emotions, because he gives me this sympathetic look before going on. "Anyway, it wasn't long before Vance shut down OSP – it was his final act as director before he got promoted to JCS."
"What happened to Eric and Nell?"
Here, Deeks actually smiles, surprising me. "They started a relationship together soon after Callen died. I attended their wedding a few years ago – me and Hetty and Nate and Renko." He looks at me apologetically. "They would have invited you too, but we couldn't find you."
"When was this?" I ask. This is news. Eric and Nell got married?
"Um…" He takes a few seconds to think. "April 2015."
"Oh," I say. "I was in Budapest at the time on an op. Deep cover."
"I think you made the most out of your career, honestly," he tells me. "I mean, Sam's basically just got a desk job; I'm not particularly distinguished as an officer…"
"Are Eric and Nell still in L.A.?" I query.
"Yep. Eric's working as an IT tech for some government company; Nell works intelligence from their house."
"At least they got their happy ending," I say, sighing a bit. If only the rest of us could have been so lucky.
"Yeah."
"Where's Nate these days?"
"He's still with NCIS. He still does undercover ops, usually in the Middle East. I haven't heard from him since he took off on his last mission."
I nod my head firmly, then remember why I'm here. I finish off my doughnut and look at Deeks.
"Deeks, are you needed back at the station for anything?" I ask.
"Nope," he replies. "That thing I had to take care of was the last thing on my list until we solve this case. From now on, I'm on official NCIS business, and the boys at LAPD know not to expect me back anytime soon."
I nod; I figured as much.
"Well, then, let's go pay a visit to Eric and Nell." I stand up; he does the same. "We've got a team to get together."
A/N: (Ducks projectiles) Don't kill me for killing Callen, please. I'm branching out as an author. Writing a tragedy seemed a natural step. So what do you think?
