December 14, 2012
He's not entirely sure what's going on.
He knows what he's agreed to. He even knows what his implicitly agreed to. What he doesn't know is why on earth he's woken up with his blood pounding in his veins. Well, that's not entirely true either. He knows the dream he's just had and he's disturbed by it as much as he is turned on.
Kensi's his teammate for God's sake.
Of course, he's not blind either. She's beautiful and he's always enjoyed her sass and her spirit. He's kept his distance, of course, because he has a rule about women and guns, but it's hard to keep that rule in place with Kensi. She's a woman with a gun, but a woman who has vulnerable spots. She's a woman that could take him down, but she's fallen asleep on his shoulder twice in the last four months alone and while he shouldn't be thinking about the amount of trust that speaks to between them, nor the way she'd felt cuddled against his sides, it seems his subconscious has other plans.
He drops his head into his hands with a sigh too heavy for what he's considering. It's not a secret that he trusts Kensi. His first thought after he'd given Janvier to the Iranians had been her. He never refused a hug when she offered it. He'd turned to her when they'd been confronted with the possibility of nuclear weapons hidden beneath the major US cities. He knows she can more than handle herself, even if his stomach twists in knots every time they have to send her in first.
Fundamentally though, he doesn't let himself dream. He can't. He's not the type of man that is going to get a happily ever after and Kensi's much too important to him and the team for him to even think about anything else. They've worked hard to hone their skills, to know with barely a glance what was coming next.
"G? G!"
He startles, cursing himself for getting lost in thought. He's at a damn bar, for Pete's sake, undercover, watching drug dealers as inconspicuously as possible. It's a tough gig, actually, because his mind is an absolute mess.
They've decorated the hacienda before, but he's never seen Kensi with that wistful look on her face, joy and vulnerability in her eyes like last night. It doesn't make sense to him. Neither does the pull he'd felt. He'd wanted to reach for her, pull her close, stroke her cheek and he damns himself for that just a bit. He shouldn't. He never has before. And that's the crux of it, isn't it? He's never wanted Kensi. Sure, he's never allowed himself to think of her that way outside of a mission or a job – and then, he's loathe to admit that he channels something different when it's them – but he should also be able to shut it down.
Instead, he's thinking of her, of them, of everything, knowing she's just across the bar, aware that he's only half paying attention to his damn job. In fact, he's so aware that he knows the moment she stands up. He can almost feel the eyes that follow her around the bar, that flick to him when she chooses the empty stool beside him. He's been keeping them empty with a remarkably good brooding demeanor that he's proud of. And is probably a little more real than he'd like it to be.
"Wanna talk about it?" she asks in a low, too-sexy murmur. And damn if his traitorous body doesn't respond.
"No." He knows she's not just asking, but asking, and either way, he doesn't want to. How does he tell her that he had a filthy dream about her? How does he explain his jumping pulse, or the way he can almost feel his body canting towards hers? He doesn't. He keeps his mouth shut. Especially since he can hear Deeks nattering on in his ear. Damn wires.
She bats her eyes at him and she has to have no idea what that does. What it's doing. Sure, it's a role for her, and she's playing it to the hilt, drawing attention like she's supposed to, but it's killing him. He's going to hurt her, he's going to ruin her, and she doesn't deserve that. No one deserves that.
He shakes her off. He's supposed to. He gets to play the asshole today – he plays it well and it suits him perfectly – but it feels like more. She must feel it too because something changes in her eyes. Something shifts and he's not sure if he's glad or not. She leans back. Not a lot, but enough that he knows he's just pushed her away.
Two days after pulling her closer.
It's good for her, he tells himself as he looks at her with blank eyes. It's safer. He's a danger, not just physically, but emotionally. Of course he is. Everyone knows that. Everyone tells him that. Even the ones that encourage him to look for someone.
She's safer, he repeats to himself as she turns away.
She's safer, he reminds himself when she moves to a table.
She's safer. It's a mantra by the time their target takes a seat next to her.
It still takes all his will power not to growl and throttle the man when he leans into Kensi's personal space.
And if he wrenches the man's arm a little too hard a few hours later, it's not his fault, because she's safer without him and he's definitely not taking it out on the jackass that had the audacity to touch her.
She's safer.
He's so screwed.
Callen's the last one in the bullpen, he thinks as he drops into his chair. He's glad for it. The entire op has left him shaken and despite their successful arrest, feeling woefully inadequate.
He hurt her. He knows it. It doesn't take a genius to see it. He hates it. He knew better, he knows better. He gave her hope and now he's sabotaged the whole thing – whatever that thing is – without even trying. He's a little surprised at hoe much that truly bothers him. He should apologize. He should explain. She's mad at him, or at the very least frustrated with him. She has to be.
Then she walks in. She's no longer in the sexy dress from the bar. She's back in her jeans and t-shirt. She's Kensi and instead of it lessening the way he's reacted to her all day, it magnifies it. He can picture the way her hair would fan out as he yanked that t-shirt over her head and –
"Callen."
She sounds a bit like she hadn't expected him to be there. Stupid really. He holds the current record for most consecutive hours in HQ.
"Hey Kens." It sounds weird on his tongue, like he no longer has the right to use a nickname with what he's done. "Look-"
"Save it," she says quietly. If she'd yelled, he'd probably have pushed. If it had been any one other than Kensi, he would have pushed.
"You- You don't owe me an explanation," she goes on, even as her fingers twist in front of her. "We don't owe each other anything."
But he wants to, he thinks, shocking himself. He wants to explain. He wants to tell her it has nothing to do with her. He's a mess, he'll always be a mess, and he shouldn't have let himself get caught up in the whole thing.
She offers him a shaky smile. "I'll see you tomorrow. Or today. Whatever."
"Kensi."
Her smile drops and the vulnerability slices through him. He's too far gone? She looks like it matters just as much. And damn it all to hell it was never supposed to be like this. He realizes that's what keeps her rooted to the spot, just enough hope that this is different, that she hadn't made a mistake sharing with him like she had. It's a bonus to him while he pieces together exactly what he wants to say.
"I lied."
And leave it to him to bugger it up. Her eyes flutter shut. It shocks him because it is both a heartbreaking amount of her heart on her sleeve and because it's painfully obvious that this means more than something to her. It's dangerous, because his whole being pulls in response. He wants to just reach out, to have that warm feeling in his chest that he'd had last night when he'd brushed a hand over her hip and kissed her cheek goodbye.
"It's okay," she says quietly, and he hates how steady her voice is. She shouldn't be used to that, shouldn't be used to people backing away. Not Kensi.
So he takes a chance and races out on that damn limb because that's what she's been doing for two straight weeks. Every day. Giving him pieces of herself and he's barely given her crumbs back. At the very least, he owes her this. More importantly he wants to give it to her.
Kensi doesn't give him a chance. She speaks before he can. "I don't know either, you know. What we're doing. What it means. If it's supposed to mean anything."
And leave it to her to hit the nail on the head in one go. She knows him, he realizes, so much better than he'd originally anticipated. It's a thrill and it's terrifying. She battles her own demons, demons that he is well aware he could very easily exacerbate. So of course she knows what he wants to say. More than that, she's doing it anyway, despite the fear.
She slips into her chair and turns it to face him, bracing her elbows on her knees. "What you said, about moving forward."
Oh, he remembers it vividly. Down to the comforting feeling of her hand in his.
"It's no pressure."
Her eyes are intense and he gets the feeling that she knows exactly how he feels. It's an overwhelming rush and shock of confusion. New feelings, but at the same time, exactly as they've always been.
"You don't owe me explanations. I don't owe you explanations. No pressure."
He doesn't like it. He doesn't know why and he doesn't even understand how, but he knows he doesn't like that. If he's being an ass, he wants her to tell him, like she always has. "We can't."
"Of course not," she agrees easily. He thinks he's out of the woods until she shrugs. "Too late."
She says it like it's a fact and it is. It just is. And she's right. It's too late for either of them. They're already moving forward and already they've both shared more with each other than they have with anyone else. It crashes down around him as he stares at her and, much to his shock, instead of weighing him down, he feels… Not lighter, but not as bogged down either. An elastic that's been strung taught and finally let go to relax again.
He feels a smile creep across his face and sees it echoed on hers. They're on the same page now, for sure, aware that they can't go backwards. Their only choice is forward and knowing their on the same page, knowing that she is completely aware that every step is going to be a fight –for both of them – he feels better.
"I'll see you when the sun's up," she says gently, breaking him from his thoughts.
He sees it, just barely, as she heads towards the exit. Green and white and just hanging there.
He doesn't think.
"Kensi."
She stops, right under it, looking at him curiously. That look turns wary as he strides over to her, determination in his eyes. He threads a hand through her hair and presses his mouth to hers. She's startled, naturally, but her body responds, going cold then spiking hot as his other hand moves around to spread across her back. One of her arms wraps around his neck, the other hand reaching up to grip his forearm. She can feel the muscles coiled beneath her fingers and a breathless moan escapes into the kiss.
He responds with a growl, pulling her more firmly against him as his tongue invades her mouth. She gives and gives and gives because while she won't admit to imagining this, she can't help but be thrilled by the reality.
God, he's a fantastic kisser.
Even Callen will admit, though grudgingly, to being a bit dazed when they pull away.
"Okay," she whispers, her eyes glowing. "You're forgiven."
He uses than hand in her hair to tilt her head back and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from putting his mouth on her neck. "Mistletoe."
He feels the damn shiver race through her and wonders if it's been a regular occurrence over the last few days.
"Oh," she says softly, "Well okay then."
He's not sure what he expects her to do, but when she trails her hand around his neck and over his shoulder, he knows it's not that. She's reluctant to break free of him, reluctant to walk away. He can't blame her because he feels it too. It's a murmur in the back of his mind.
Don't let her go.
It feels like a stupid moment out of time, like all of those damn romance books that make no sense and chick flicks that give off an unnatural expectation of relationships. It's not them and he finds himself chuckling as her fingers weave in his. He takes his hand from her hair and finds himself squeezing her hand before separating completely.
"Sun up," she says, almost twitching. In fact, she leans towards him, just a touch, before falling back on her heels. She lets out a frustrated noise that does make him laugh before she turns and heads out of the hacienda.
And he smiles as he returns to his desk, the crippling fear banished.
At least for another day.
I... don't know what happened at the end there. And it feels weird because part of me wants to go back and change it, but the other part of me knows that some of my best writing and best plot devices come out when I don't know what happens...
The next chapter will likely be longer than the last two. Not in words (well maybe, I haven't written it yet) but in time between. I may have just written myself into a corner I now have to find a way to write myself out of. We'll see. I know these last two have been back-to-back in a sense. Plus, I have a crossover chapter to work my way through too.
Thanks for reading!
