December 19, 2012
Maggie Hart has had hundreds of thousands of people come through her shelter. As someone who has been there, Maggie's always felt like she's uniquely equipped to run a shelter. She's seen so many different people come through. People who have been on the streets for days and some that have been on the streets for years. Some she feels have lost hope and others she knows still have so much potential.
But the teenager sitting alone one December evening breaks her heart.
"Sleeping rough?"
Her eyes are bloodshot, one brown, one black. How striking. "Go away."
But Maggie won't. She's got nerves of steel, always has. So instead, she sits and can virtually see the girl's hackles rise. "What's your name?"
Stubborn. A stubborn runaway teenager. Maggie hates those, though not for regular reasons. It's just sad that a child feels like home is so bleak that they run. "How long have you been a runway?"
This time, those unique eyes roll. "None of your business."
"Your parents?"
Her eyes go flat. Maggie does not need words to understand what that means. Not a runaway then. An orphan. "Leave me alone."
"No."
The blunt refusal takes the teenager off-guard. Completely. Maggie can see the way her fingers twitch, itching to flee.
"Don't talk to me, that's fine, but I'm going to sit here, maybe just sit here, until you go to bed. Now then, eat up. You could do with some meat on your bones."
Bow the girl is beyond stunned. Maggie just sit back, waiting, patient. Even the tough nuts crack after a while. She's had a lot of practice.
"Why?" the girl asks. "There are plenty of people here to focus on. Why me?"
Now Maggie leans in again. "The way I see it, there are three types of people on the streets. There are those that are, unfortunately, mentally ill. We can't fix it here, we can only help them for a little while. Then they move on. They can't help it. Then there's the hope suckers. They have a bleak outlook, negative about everything, ready to blame everyone but themselves for all of their problems. They suck all of the light out of a room.
"Now you're sad, oh yes. Angry too. But not hopeless. Not hopeless and very, very young. So why you? Because you're part of that last group, the group that still believes in goodness, that still has faith and hope and a future ahead of them. You're hard, you're stron, you're a fighter, or my guess is you'd be making a pretty penny on a street corner right about now. This is LA. Pretty girl like you would be snatched up by a pimp in absolutely no time at all. You're not running either. There's not enough fear in you.
"So, sweetheart, you've got all the potential to get off these streets. You've got all the potential to do something great. You shouldn't be here."
The teenager stays quiet and Maggie's not entirely sure it's stubbornness or shock. She reaches out. The girl doesn't jump.
"I have a friend," she says on impulse. "Not from Hollywood. Not an agent or a pimp. A friend. Will you meet her?"
The girl says nothing.
Maggie nods. "I'm going to call her. Tell her to come. If you're still sitting here when she arrives…"
The message is clear as Maggie stands and moves away.
Then she hears, "Kensi."
The teenager is looking at her straight on, no defiance, no anger. Wariness, sure, but it's a weird softness.
"Kensi," Maggie repeats. It feels like a big deal. A very big deal. "I'm Maggie."
Then she makes the call.
Half an hour later, a tiny woman steps through the shelter doors. She looks entirely out of place as she weaves through the ratty groups of her 'customers'. "Maggie."
"Hetty," Maggie greets.
It only takes Hetty a moment to spot Kensi across the room. Maggie follows, feeling oddly protective of the girl she'd only met maybe forty-five minutes ago, but there's something about Kensi that has Maggie's hackles up, even with Hetty. And she knows she's made the right choice when Kensi's eyes flick to Maggie first.
"Kensi, this is Hetty."
Hetty holds out a hand. "Hello, Miss Blye."
By the end of the conversation, Hetty's left her business card with the teenager and Maggie's surprised to see a calm determination in her features. There's something out there for her now, Maggie realizes. She has a goal.
Five years later, Maggie's serving soup in late December when a throat clears beside her. It takes Maggie a moment to recognize the now-grown woman standing next to her, a shy smile on her face.
"Kensi!"
She blushes. Actually blushes. It makes Maggie grin. She looks even better, less broken. Then she smiles. "Got room for a volunteer?"
Kensi's nervous. It's stupid really. There's nothing to be nervous about. She's volunteered here for years, a thank you to the woman and the place that completely changed the path of her life.
Granted, there are some differences to this particular trip.
She tends to come when they're working a bad case, for one thing and while the military's criminals haven't been absolutely silent by any means, they're not working anything particularly traumatizing at the moment. And then, of course, there's Callen. She can feel the heat of him at her back as they step through the shelter doors. They're weighed down by her old gifts and Kensi finds herself chewing the inside of her cheek, her adrenaline spiking. It feels like she's about to introduce Callen to her mother, though this time, it's the woman she chose rather than the woman who gave birth to her. This is more.
"Kensi!"
The smile blossoms over her face without effort. Maggie's almost always had that effect on her. It takes her longer than usual to reach Kensi, her old bones creaking but it feels oddly like coming home when Kensi's pressed against her, smelling cotton and powder.
When Maggie pulls back, she eyes Kensi critically, the same way she always does. Kensi stays still under the onslaught.
"Something's different," Maggie accuses. Callen shifts beside her, drawing Maggie's gaze. She turns her broad grin back to Kensi. "Oh."
Kensi feels the blush crawling up her cheeks. "Maggie, meet Callen. We work together."
"Do you now," Maggie murmurs, eyeing Callen. Her arm comes around Kensi's waist, an unmistakably protective gesture. "Do you keep my girl safe, Mister Callen?"
To his credit, Callen only smirks, but Kensi sees pride there, enough to make her breath back up in her lungs. "She doesn't need my help, ma'am."
Maggie grins. "Excellent answer." Then she claps her hands. "Let's get you two set up. Put those gifts under the tree and grab and apron. It's almost time for the lunch rush."
. . . . .
Kensi's arranging gifts beneath the sparsely decorated tree, looking for a donation fit for a seven-year-old girl when Maggie settles on a nearby chair.
"Those are not just random donations, Miss Kensi Marie."
Years later, and Maggie is still the one of very few people who can make Kensi feel down right guilty for keeping little things secret.
"They're yours."
Kensi only pauses a split second, but even she knows it's enough of a tell for Maggie.
"Have you told him?"
"Yeah," Kensi answers. She swallows. "Everything."
Maggie makes a surprised sound. "Is that why you brought them?"
"It's a motivation," Kensi admits, aware that it's just easier to answer truthfully. Her eyes find him, offering a worn-looking woman a smile and a steaming bowl of soup. "It's good. Whatever it is."
"Whatever it is?" Because even Maggie knows that Callen's mere presence speaks volumes, if not everything Kensi's told him.
Kensi smiles reflexively. "We're- Making new memories."
"And falling in love along the way."
Kensi stiffens. "Maggie-"
Maggie waves away all of Kensi's prepared excuses. "Now is not the time to debate semantics. It's good."
Kensi huffs. She can't argue. It's a waste of breath.
"You're happy, Kensi. I can see it. Steady."
"You think it's him."
Maggie laughs. "When you were here, a month ago, after you found your father's killer, you still-" She hums, searching for the right word. "It didn't seem like finding him was as satisfying to you as you'd expected."
Kensi finds herself biting her lip.
"Now-"
She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. Kensi knows that finding her father's murderer certainly hadn't been satisfying. Even reconciling with her mother hadn't helped make her feel better. So many years, but closure hadn't felt like relief.
She does like spending time with Callen. She definitely enjoys the newly added physicality, but she's spent so much time reminding herself that it's just a thing. She's been trying to remind herself that neither of them have made anything serious out of this.
"Kensi."
She looks up at Maggie.
"Don't fuss. I'm glad you're happy. I-I am very happy you're happy and that you've finally found someone to share your dark corners with again." Her eyes are serious. "Don't let worry and fear ruin the good things."
She can't promise. She can't. There are so many worries, so much fear. It doesn't mean that any of the fears aren't well-founded. Maggie doesn't make her promise, either, because she knows too.
Instead, she smiles. "Try the Princess-wrapped one. I'd bet that gift will fit your little girl perfectly."
. . . . .
After cornering Kensi, Maggie has one more mission. As much as Kensi looks at her as a maternal figure, Kensi is a daughter to Maggie and, as a maternal figure, she feels like it is her duty to step up. She gets her chance in the lull after the lunch rush. She's standing beside Callen at what she' has always affectionately called the 'Buffet Table'. There's no one in line, and no one around.
"I met Kensi at that table over there."
Callen's eyes follow the point of her ladle, but he says nothing.
"She was on the streets."
Again, Maggie gets no response, not even a flicker of surprise. He's good, she thinks, and she wonders how he learned about Kensi's time on the streets.
"She as young and stubborn and lost. But she wasn't hopeless."
There's a flicker, a little twitch of a smirk. He knows then, very well, that Kensi is no wilting flower.
"Mister Callen, that is my girl. She has been through too much. So if you are not serious about her, if this is just a game to you, or a test, then walk away. She's been through enough broken hearts."
Then she nods and returns to the soup.
It's a few minutes before he says, "Ma'am, I don't want to break Kensi's heart."
Maggie looks up, watching him and because she's searching fo it, she sees the darkness hiding there. It's a familiar look. She sees it in Kensi's eyes when she usually shows up to volunteer.
"Never Kensi."
Which, she knows, speaks volumes. He's been quiet. Friendly enough, but quiet. Not the type to share much. Except Maggie has a feeling that if Kensi's sharing with him, he's doing the same for her. Kensi's just like that.
"She's something special," Maggie finds herself agreeing, eyes straying to Kensi, seated across the room, listening intensely to a rag-dressed man.
"I can't promise-"
"I'm not asking you to," she interrupts. "I'm asking you to try."
She's asking him to make a decision.
"We're spending Christmas together."
Apparently, there's no decision to make. Maggie smiles. "She's happy, Mister Callen. It's all I can ever ask for."
From the look in his eyes when they meet hers again, he feels very much the same.
This one feels choppy. Dude. I need to get back on the bandwagon of half-decent writing. Then I promise I'll shut up. Or maybe, as a writer, I'm just not supposed to like 80 percent of the things I put up. Meh.
Bless each and every one of you who was so encouraging with my (obviously) personal struggle with the last chapter. I've been out of practice so long and this has been so long in writing that sometimes, I lose track of the dual goal. To write and produce something people like to read. You guys are awesome fans and I'm so grateful for all of your encouragement.
QUESTION TIME: What do you think Kensi and Callen would get each other for Christmas? It's kind of important. I'm hoping for some ideas or some prompts. Something to give me a hand because the usual sentimental gifts don't apply here. Like, Callen wouldn't buy Kensi jewelry. Their relationship doesn't work like that.
ALSO, again mistakes are mine. Thanks for leaving them alone!
