A/N: Oh my gosh, everyone, thank you so much for the reviews, story alerts, and favorites! This did way better than I thought it would, and I'm absolutely honored that you all reviewed.
This chapter is for to don't feel like logging in, who requested Kensi. I'm not sure if this is what you wanted, but I tried!
Also, thanks to Victim No. 5173, who pointed out some minor date errors in the previous drabble. Thanks!
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS:LA. It belongs to Mr. Shane Brennan.
"Now that I have found you, I will never leave you again." -Unknown
Prompt: 002- I'm Here
Characters: Kensi Blye, Marty Deeks
Word Count: 700
He is pale and fragile-looking, strewn all over the hospital bed like broken glass.
She isn't used to this. Out of all of them, he's the most energetic, the bounciest, the let's-go-get-'em-guys-est, and this almost-dead bullet-ridden shell of her partnerin not okay.
Kensis shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, staring at his slightly twitching body.
She is not good at this. She can handle assassins, terrorists, and the mob, but this, this is a whole different animal.
(This is her father, is funerals and cold and—)
Deeks makes a sound low in his throat, twists a bit on the bed. She stares at him, chews her lip.
Maybe this would be easier if he'd been killed, if this was a funeral—
No. That's just wrong. Her last partner died, Dom died, and Deeks is alive and she's grateful for it, really she is. Another death, so soon after the first, would be too much for the team, for her.
She's glad Deeks is alive. She's glad he's going to be okay. She's glad they were after her, because that means they didn't kill him.
He makes another sound, a bit louder, and his face scrunches up. His fingers curl tight into the white sheets, grasping at something invisible.
Kensi is frozen. She doesn't know what to do—this isn't like pointing a gun or cuffing a suspect. This is something she's never been good at.
Deeks makes an even louder sound, something like a cross between a moan and a cry. He thrashes a bit, tangling himself in nightmare and sheets.
He needs Hetty.
He needs someone who knows what to do, how to still a nightmare, how to comfort. Hell, even Sam would be better here, in this situation.
But she, Kensi Blye, Special Agent and one-woman army, doesn't know what to do. Should she wake him up? Let him fight through it? Leave the room and never come back?
There's another sound, low, keening, harsh to her ears and maybe she should run, leave him in his dreams and come back bright-eyed and false-grinning in the morning.
"D—" It sticks in her throat, hard, lumpy. It shouldn't but it does.
They're just words, she thinks, furious at herself (ashamed, too). Come on, you can speak at least.
More sounds, coming faster now, childlike, almost. She remembers, in a sudden flash like a bolt of lightning, that he doesn't have next of kin, no father no mother no siblings, no anyone, they are—she is—all he's got.
There's no one else to brush these nightmares away.
"Deeks," she whispers, forcing that lump out of her chest.
He doesn't answer her, instead twisting his fingers deeper into the sheets, knuckles white and tense, face drawn taut, afraid.
"Dad," he whimpers.
Jesus.
Stiffly, military-strait, she walks to the bed, presses her shaking fingers to his hot, sweaty forehead.
"Deeks," she says again, a bit louder.
He doesn't answer, moans, twists under her fingers. He's too warm—maybe she should call a nurse.
"Deeks."
No answer.
Slowly, hesitantly, ready to bolt at a second's notice, Kensi pushes him over, rolls him a bit so she can fit flush against him in the bed. He makes a sound in the base of his throat—she can feel it—and curls closer, half-smothering her, good Lord he's a freaking puppy, a blonde, floppy puppy.
"It's—it's okay, Deeks," she says, unsteady.
There's another sound, this one even softer. He shifts, loosens his death grip on the sheets. The nightmare is slipping away.
Foggy eyes blink open, still half-lost in dream, and Kensi manages to pull her lips into something like a smile.
"It's okay, Deeks. I'm here," she says, managing to show both compassion and if-you-tell-Sam-or-Callen-I-will-tear-you-to-pieces-Martin at the same time.
"Kens?"
"Go to sleep," she murmurs, as he curls tighter (big, floppy, annoyingly warm puppy). "I'm here."
"I know," he says thickly, eyes drooping. "You're always here."
And he slips back into sleep, drooling a bit. His face is smooth again, his fingers loose, muscles relaxed. Whatever—whoever—was hurting him is gone now.
Kensi hides a smile in his shoulder. Maybe she's not so bad at this after all.
A/N: Thanks for reading!
-Blue