He was a fly.
They were the fly swatter, merciless, titanic, inching nearer towards his slurred vision. Motion is slowed, time is stilled, before all at once, tides of pain are accompanied with the illusive slap.
Most flies, however, did not have to suffer. Instantaneous.
No such luck.
Who was who? Which way was up, down? Night or day?
Did it matter?
He knew the answer.
No, it didn't matter.
He didn't matter.
Something may matter, in a perfect world. Or in a not perfect world. Somebody- something- somewhere. They may have mattered. Not him. Not Sam. Nobody. Everybody.
Concepts were hard to grasp, growing harder each day. He stopped. Grasping, that is. Trying to grasp. Being the grasp-er.
Relief came in the form of Kensi Blye.
The first time she visited, she was wearing jeans with the signature fray on the side of her thigh, a familiar piece of plaid as her top. Flannel.
All smiles and twinkling eyes, her teeth sparkled.
"Kensi," he greeted, returning her grin.
Sam lay unconscious in the neighboring room.
She sat, slipped her hand into his.
Warmth. Vivid, welcome. Foreign. A stimulation of his pulse.
Suddenly, he felt alive. In some state of deliriousness, fever, evil induced iniquity. He was alive. Good thing she could still remind him, until the day arose that she- not even inviolable, irrepressible Kensi- couldn't bring him back.
Life was ending for him. He could feel it seep from pores he hadn't realized he had in his body. Feeling death fill the place where breath had once been led him to the realization that all he was was holes. Holes here, holes there. Everywhere. Blood and sweat and tears and screams and life escaped the holes. He wouldn't get them back. They could be replaced, maybe (unlikely he'd have a chance for a refund), but he would never have that blood, over there on the walls, pooling at his feet. That life, struggling from his features, trudging like worms from his cheek bones, eyes.
But for now, in the here, present tense- Kensi had restored a bit of something that felt like life but better.
"Deeks," she countered.
"Are you saving me?" Desperate as he may sound, as that had been his first question to her, he didn't have it in him to care.
"Since when have you needed saving?"
They talked. Idle. Ignoring the blood- his blood- that seeped into their clothes. Her shoes, his hair. Everywhere.
And for that half hour, he was alive. Acute. Tuned in.
Accents carried through the hall, rough and terrifying. is he talking to himself why is he doing that somebody check on him for God's sake
Gone. That's what Kensi was.
She'd departed with a smile, as if death itself wasn't just around the corner.
Tears found their way down his cheek, fell off of his jaw.
"Kensi!"
She didn't come back.
Not for a while, anyways.
Cotton filled his mouth and ears. He needed water. And aspirin. And a beer.
Vision flooding, he forced his eyes open. Sparks seared the inside of his skull, fireworks of either dead or dying.
"Kensi."
His lip quivered, tears tracking down his face, falling onto his collarbone.
"You left me."
She didn't say anything that visit, not a word. But she brought peace.
She, God sent, delivered tranquility.
She was placid.
She was gentle.
She was, more than anything, alive.
She was what he was not.
If asked to describe his torturers in one word, it would be 'relentless'.
The day that he would die, knew that he would die, the torture had been unwavering, constant. Unbearable.
Sam was unconscious. Or dead.
Deeks couldn't tell.
He could tell, however, that this was his last day on earth.
This, this was death. That was his blood and sweat and tears and pain, and this was death. This, this was silent, painless.
When she appeared that day, clad in a bulletproof vest and armed with a gun, he figured she would lead him into heaven, barreling demons to the ground with bullets.
But she was crying.
She was crying, and she was checking his pulse.
She was crying, and she was cutting away his restrains.
She was crying, and she was picking his body up.
She was crying, and she was holding him. Holding him so close that the strength of Kensi reached into him, painted away his death, replaced it with senses and emotions and filled his endless collection of holes, overfilling every single one of them with... love.
I've got him. I- I got him. He's alive.
Her voice was refreshing, cracking with sobs. Beautiful.
In the end, she was his savior. She was more than he could ask for.