Sequel to "Sacrifice". I can't leave well enough alone.

"My favorite Christmas story?" He cocked his head sideways for just a split second. "The Gift of the Magi." Deeks stated it as though it was everyone's favorite. He was flummoxed at the blank stare that met his gaze. "You know-that short story by O. Henry. Jim and Della? Ring any bells?" She shrugged and shook her head. "It's so romantic; I can't believe you don't know it—oh, wait, this is you. It's not required reading for sniper school." He took her punch to his arm in stride, having baited her into it.

Watching him squirm for a minute, she gave in. "Oh, all right, tell me about it before you have a cow!"

He grinned. "OK, this young couple has no money, except he has a watch his grandfather gave him and she has long, luxurious hair. They can't afford a Christmas present for each other, so each one sells his only possession to get the perfect gift for the other. She sells her hair to a wigmaker to buy him a chain for his pocket watch, and he sells the watch to buy her tortoise shell combs for her long hair. They each give up something precious to make the person most precious to them happy. That's kind of what we did, right?"

Deeks was holding her hand, enjoying the sunny afternoon in Paris as he strolled down the Champs Elysees. Holding HER hand. His wife's hand. Kensi Deeks. He couldn't help but shake his head slightly.

"What?" she asked.

"I just can't believe you are about to kiss me in broad daylight in Paris," he said, stopping and facing her.

"C'est vrai," she declared, and put her arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe and pulling his face down to hers. To the casual observer, they were just another couple succumbing to the romance of the surroundings. Another couple enjoying their honeymoon after saving up for the trip of a lifetime.

The casual observer might not notice his slight limp, or the protective way she glanced at him periodically, as though she was afraid he might evaporate. The few people who did notice them during their street side make-out session either sighed or scowled, depending on their own current relationship status.

Kensi had backed into one of the trees sprouting from the sidewalk for support as the taste of her husband (HUSBAND!) always left her weak in the knees. "You are my favorite flavor!" she declared, finally pulling back to look up at him. He rewarded her with a million-watt grin and a satisfying sigh before continuing on their walk.

"For the record," she said, "I don't think giving up our expensive plans to surf in Hawaii so that we could come to Paris and house sit for Hetty's cousin for free constitutes a sacrifice. We will still go to Hawaii to surf in a few months when you're 100% again."

"Oh, so you're playing the whole 'you are physically unable to surf due to being injected with a biochemical' card, huh?" He ducked into an alcove and backed Kensi against a wall. She could feel the heat of the sun-warmed stone through the thin fabric of her dress. He placed one thigh against hers and she could feel her own heat reflected off his skin. "I'll show you 100% all right," he breathed against her neck. He leaned against her, his hands on the wall on either side of her head, pressing his hips into hers, kissing her neck until he felt the shiver he was waiting for run through her.

He was slightly annoyed when he noticed her attention was behind him, over his shoulder. She cleared her throat, slipped out from under him, and said, "Bonjour" to the children in the schoolyard across the street who were pressed against the fence, watching them.

"Ooh, la la," giggled the three young girls, who ran off kissing the air noisily.

"Oops," said Marty. He grabbed Kensi's hand and they jogged quickly down the nearest side street, away from the teacher who had come to investigate the source of the girls' entertainment. He and Kensi laughed until they were breathless. Then she spied a nearby bench and pulled him down beside her. He allowed her to pretend that she sat down to catch her breath, knowing that she really wanted to give him a chance to catch his. She was very sensitive to the fact that he had long since grown weary of being the invalid. She had almost perfected the art of taking care of him without seeming to.

He loved her so much that he didn't want her to worry about him, or worry that he knew that she worried. She loved him so much that she would always worry, always remember the time he practically talked a foreign enemy into using him as a human guinea pig, sparing the rest of the team from the physical, if not emotional trauma. Is this what people who put their lives on the line daily did for each other? They didn't know many people who weren't in this line of work, so it was hard to say.

They sat lengthwise with their feet stretched out before them, Kensi leaning back against him, resting her hand on the hollow of his scarred thigh. "It's too perfect," she breathed, loving the feel of his chin on her head and his arms around her.

"Don't jinx it!" he chided. Truthfully, he felt the same way. There was a faint feeling of foreboding nagging at his subconscious.

Maybe it was the complete absence of anything they recognized as dangerous. The past few weeks in Paris seemed like such a respite after the harrowing time provided by their latest adventure, that it made danger seem an ocean away.

Still, Kensi knew what she knew. While Marty rested before supper ("really, Kensi, I am not tired. I just know it will make you feel better if I rest," he said) she called Dr. Asana back in L.A. The good doctor was interested but not very helpful, and of course she suggested taking Marty to a doctor in Paris, or at the very least seeing her when they arrived back in L.A.

Later that night, when they were in bed, she had her right arm stretched across his bare chest. She thought she detected a labor to his breathing that she hadn't noticed before, or tried to ignore, like it took a lot of effort to make his chest rise. He tried to nonchalantly move her arm to his waist, but she was too sharp for that.

"What's wrong, Baby?" she asked quietly, afraid he would resent the fact that she noticed.

"Nothing at all, Sugar Bear," he said, pushing her hand even farther down.

She sat up, propped on one elbow, withdrawing her hand, not letting him distract her with sex. "Deeks, come on. You've been breathing really hard the last couple days, and your chest seems to be sensitive to pressure. Do we need to go to the doctor?" He loved the way she said "we" and he kissed her nose.

He sighed, knowing that he needed to just come clean and tell her. She always knew anyway, and hiding it seemed to make her sixth sense of Deeksawareness even sharper.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he began. "I just feel kind of full, you know, bloated and heavy. I'm sure it's just my time of the month," he joked.

She grinned in spite of herself, but she would not let him hijack the conversation with humor. "Is your stomach upset?" she asked.

"Not really—it's more just pressure—in my chestal area."

Now she did laugh. "Chestal? You take the cake, Husband," she said, pulling him in for a soft kiss.

"Kens, really, we can't make mountains out of molehills all the time. Most people have some aches and pains and I'm sure it's not a big deal." He propped up on one elbow, preparing to broach a sensitive subject. "Maybe it's time," he hesitated as he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, "to get back to work. Maybe I need – we need- to stop concentrating on every breath I take, looking for something that is probably nothing."

"You mean, leave Paris?" she asked slowly. "You're ready for our honeymoon to be over?" she questioned, eyebrows raised. She had secretly been ready for a little more excitement for a while now. Be careful what you wish for.

"I think we will always live like we're on our honeymoon in some respects," he grinned, tracing the curve of her hip. "But I am ready for some normalcy. Well, as normal as two crime fighting badass gun-carrying masters of ninja moves can be!"

"Ok…me too!" she said, not trying to hide it any longer. "But, there is one condition. You have to see a doctor first before we stop focusing on your every breath, all of which, by the way, are extremely important to me," she finished in a sultry whisper, leaning in closer and nibbling his earlobe.

"Ok, I'll see a doctor, but back home. And I have a condition, too."

"What's that?"

"What's a condition? It's a detail you have to agree to in order for me to do what you want," he said with a serious expression. She rolled her eyes, sorry she had let him talk her into watching Airplane for the fourth time, which was always followed by a barrage of cheesy jokes.

"This condition better not involve handcuffs," she laughed.

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Three days later, they made their way through airport security. If they had been on a case, or if Deeks hadn't felt achy, or if Kensi had not been watching her husband, maybe they would have noticed the way the two pilots who came through the area to board the plane first stole furtive glances at security while trying hard to seem casual. Trying too hard.

Maybe they would have heard the stewardesses griping about a trainee that was put on the flight at the last minute as they boarded.

Deeks registered a temperature of 38.7 degrees Celsius, so he was pulled aside for the officials to question him about recent trips, and his passport was checked and rechecked to make sure he had not been to West Africa, coming in contact with the Ebola virus.

He had taken two ibuprofen before leaving the townhouse, so the next time they screened his temperature it had fallen to a passable 37.4 degrees. Passable to security and passable to Kensi were in altogether different corners of the universe, and Deeks had to pretend to be asleep early into the flight to get her to stop fussing over him. He had wanted to try to punch their membership cards in the mile-high club (ok—six miles high), since the first-class accommodations Hetty had insisted on upgrading them to provided some privacy, but damn if his pretend sleep didn't turn into real sleep by the time they were at cruising altitude.

If Kensi could have been miffed at having no one to talk to for the first few hours of the flight she would have, but the dark crescents under her husband's eyes played on her sympathy, and she decided to be all mature and understanding. She wanted desperately for someone else who loved him to look at him and assess him, instead of feeling like she was trying to borrow trouble. Going back to L.A. would be good in that respect.

Was that perspiration on his brow from a fever, or was he just overdressed? Was that a sigh, or was his breathing irregular? She had been on guard since before they were married, and the effort to do it and pretend not to do it was exhausting.

Another concern eventually replaced her worry over her husband. The plane started making a descent far too soon. This couldn't be good. Four hours, and they should have been over the Atlantic Ocean. Storm? Engine trouble? She noticed a few worried glances from some of the other tight-lipped passengers. No one felt entirely safe on a trans-continental flight these days.