December 24, 2012
Christmas Eve dawns grey and threatens miserable weather. Kensi doesn't mind. Today isn't always the happiest of days anyway.
She stays sprawled on her couch, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Christmas Eve. She sighs. It is both her favourite and most hated day of the Christmas calendar. It's the first time since the advent calendar started she hasn't jumped up to check the new window. She's not entirely sure she will either. She has her own tradition for Christmas Eve, the only one she's observed religiously since her father's murder.
And the one she feels is most important.
She's connected to this one, intimately. It's a tradition her father started with her and while all of the traditions she's observed with Callen over the course of the holiday season, there is nothing like this one. This one she needs to do by herself. This one she's not yet ready to share.
She's slow to get out of bed. Hetty's given them the day off, deliberately, Kensi knows. She feels good taking her time. She has a long hot shower, indulging herself. Today's tradition is her hardest, by far. So she takes her time, she does things slowly. It's too important for her to rush because of the nerves racing through her. She even turns off her phone. She refuses to have any interruptions. They're all gathering at Sam's for a team party anyway, so she doesn't feel too guilty about it. She has a feeling Hetty knows all and sees all. If something goes wrong, she's pretty sure Hetty would be able to find her.
She doesn't wear anything particularly special. She's in a red sweater and jeans. She pins her hair back in a sleek bun, but it's the only fancy part of her outfit. She has a moment of brief panic when she can't find the three candles she's bought specifically for today. After that, she throws on her jacket and climbs in her car. It's a solemn, silent, solitary drive, the way it always has been. Even when she'd do it with her father, they never spoke, never turned on the radio.
She drives and drives and drives because the little place she needs is a rare section of full, quiet foliage in the urban landscape of Los Angeles. She pulls into the parking lot and while there are lots of cars, the place isn't full. She takes a moment, like she's always had to do since she started the tradition of up again.
The Memory Garden.
It's hard for her. Every year she comes, she thinks that she shouldn't be doing this alone. She shouldn't be doing it without her dad. Maybe she shouldn't even be doing it without Jack. Maybe she should have told Callen. The last one, she disregards almost the minute she thinks it. They're not in a place where she feels like the real significance will settle in. They've made great steps – massive steps – and even though she's not ready to share it, she finds herself wondering if maybe one day, she will be.
A knock on the window startles her, but she smiles almost immediately when her mind registers who stands on the other side of her door. "Andy!"
The man, white haired and jolly as Santa, laughs as she all but catapults out of the SUV and into his waiting hug. Andy's run this little sanctuary for over thirty years. He's known her since she was a little girl. His steel-trap memory had kept her filed away so the first year she'd returned to LA and made a stop on Christmas Eve at his particular version of paradise, he'd greeted her with a hug and a smile that had almost brought her to tears. She knows he looks out for her Christmas Eve, even scouts out the best branches for her candles.
"My girl," he says, his voice low and gruff. It still carries hints of his Scottish homeland and it makes her stomach warm. "How are you?"
"Good," she answers honestly. They've been through hell this year, her team, but she feels like there have been changes. Good changes. Necessary changes. And some good things looming on the horizon that give her hope.
He pulls back, holds her at arms length. "You look good."
"I feel good," she answers with a grin.
"That job not working you into the ground?"
She grins, and lets go of him only long enough to grab her bag out of the front seat. She locks her car with the remote as she links arms with him. "Doesn't it always?"
Andy sighs. She's not sure her grin can get wider. He's always been there for her, every Christmas Eve. A smile, a hug, fatherly advice, fatherly nagging. The first couple of years after her father's death it drove her nuts. Now, Christmas doesn't feel the same without it.
"How many candles this year."
"Still just three," she says quietly. "We've been lucky."
"Better than four." Andy offers her a bit of a sad smile. He knows in her line of work three could turn to four at any moment.
"Coming?" she asks, holding out a hand. She was a mess after Jack left, and Andy hadn't been able to let her do it alone. Now she offers, because it means something.
Andy links his arm with hers and leads her down the broad path. She sighs when she hits the clearing, as she always does. She knows what she's here to do but that doesn't mean that it makes it any easier.
"I've got just the tree," he says, leading her to the left. He weaves down a smaller path and stops in front of a tree Kensi kind of wishes was the one in her home.
She sucks in a deep breath, then reaches into her bag to withdraw the three candles and a lighter. The tree is covered with small, empty lanterns and she pulls one down, sliding the candle inside. She very carefully monitors her breathing as she lights the candle and hangs the lantern back on the tree. She repeats it twice more as Andy stands by. Then she steps back and he links his arm with hers again.
They stand in silence for a moment before Andy asks, "What was that thing your dad used to say when he'd hang these?"
Kensi smiles. "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth." She has to stop and choke back tears, just for a moment before she resolutely pushes onward. "It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love."
"And the greatest of these is love," Andy murmurs because she can't finish around the tears. His arm slides around her waist, pulls her into him. She goes willingly, a bit of a mess. But it's just Andy. She doesn't have to be strong with Andy.
Eventually, she sniffles and pulls back. He doesn't ask, just leads her back down the path to the little cabin that serves as headquarters. It's cozy. It's Andy's home. She sits on the couch while he makes cider, bringing her a steaming mug like he's done since she was a child.
"We caught him, you know," she says quietly, looking down into her mug. "Dad's killer."
"That's good."
"I thought it would be better."
Andy laughs a little. "Isn't that always the way?"
Kensi flashes a bit of a weak smile. "My mom's back too."
He hums a little. "I've never met her."
"Yeah," she sighs.
"And?" he prompts. She hates that he knows.
"And I think-" She has to stop, has to swallow. The words are clogging in her throat. Andy reaches out, put his hand on her knee, squeezes, prompting. So she takes a deep breath and says, "I think I'm falling in love."
The thing about the Memory Garden is that it wipes her out. She could go home and nap, but what she does is just sit. She just sits on her couch after she gets home, doesn't even remove her shoes or her jacket.
She's numb.
She loves the Memory Garden. She has to do it. It's the one tradition she's stuck with, through thick and thin. She's had good years – she took Jack after they got engaged, for example – and bad ones, like the year she'd had to bring a third candle because they'd lost Dom. This year, thankfully, it's just an average year. There's nothing to add, and she's okay with that. The only problem is that the Memory Garden does exactly that: it brings up memories.
Her mind is flashing, images, voices, phrases, events. She can remember the first time her dad tried to braid her hair and the first time Jack dumped her into a snowdrift. She remembers explaining to Dom about peeing in a bottle and the look on the MP's faces when they arrived at her door to deliver the news about her father.
It makes her numb.
So she misses his entrance, just feels the way the couch sinks beneath his weight. She's so numb it doesn't even make her jump.
"Kens?"
She says nothing, but she kind of tips sideways, falling against his body. His arms come around her out of reflex and it speaks to how far they've come. It's an easy thing, a simple comfort that she absorbs willingly.
"When I was a little girl, my dad took me to this forest. Well, I thought it was a forest. I remember it as a forest. I was really little."
He doesn't say anything, but she feels his cheek rest on the top of her head.
"A Memory Garden." She swallows. "I'm not sure when I really realized what we were doing, but the idea is that you light a candle for everyone you want to remember. Maybe they left, maybe they died, maybe they just can't be with you that holiday season, but you light a candle for them."
He continues to stay quiet, but when it becomes obvious she's not going to add anything, he speaks. "That's where you went tonight."
She hums her agreement. "It's the one tradition that I can't share."
Because it makes her so very vulnerable.
He doesn't have to ask why. He doesn't have to ask any questions, actually. The little she has shared is more than enough to figure out what's going on, more than enough to understand why she isn't ready to share this with anyone. So instead of asking questions, he tugs her closer, wraps her up in his arms.
And just holds on.
One more chapter to go!
This one too "so long" because it was important to me that I really liked this chapter. This is my all-time favourite tradition that I've used every year since someone sent it to me in a PM years ago. It's important to be, so I'm always much more anal about getting it right.
But now you have it and I hope you enjoyed it!
