Author's Note: This is by far the longest chapter, and yeah, it's a few days ahead of schedule. This one is fairly talky, but I believe necessary in order to understand where our heroes are mentally right now. Thanks for the reads and constant kind comments. All typos are mine. Enjoy.
They say that time heals all wounds. In the case of NCIS Special Agent Kensi Blye, "they" don't know what the hell they're talking about. Time may have healed the majority of her physical injuries, but it's done nothing to help the mental or emotional ones.
As she has almost every day for the last six months, she wakes up at just before four in the morning. It's still dark out, and as she lies in her bed, she listens to Monty, who is sound asleep at the foot of the bed (he's been living with her over since she took him from Eric, who had been watching him while she and Deeks had been undercover), snoring away peacefully. She envies Monty's supposed simplicity, wonders if he understand things such as guilt, rage, grief and loss. For his sake, she hopes that he doesn't.
About a half hour later, no longer able to pretend that sleep might return to her and no longer capable of just lying in her bed, she gets up, showers, and makes her way into her kitchen wearing gray sweatpants and a thin well-worn and faded black United States Marine Corps sweatshirt (it had belonged to her father years ago, and has seen her through more than a few tragedies). Thanks to the weight she's lost over the last several months, the sweatshirt hangs off of her.
She pours herself a bowl of Frosted Flakes, smothers it with low-fat milk, and then spends the next thirty minutes pushing the soggy mixture around with her spoon. She eats maybe two bites of it. Finally, resigned to the fact that she once again has no appetite, she puts the bowl on the floor and lets Monty finish it.
This is how it is for her (and Monty) most mornings, how it's been for her for the last six months. She's gotten pretty used to the no sleep and no appetitive routine by now, but that doesn't mean that she's adapted to or accepted it.
Every night, she goes to bed hoping that come daybreak, she'll wake up feeling like the Kensi Blye of old. So far, every morning has brought with it more of the same – exhaustion, the sting of loss and the ache of guilt.
She sighs, runs a hand through her still damp hair, and looks down to where Monty is licking in the corner of the bowl, trying to get to the last drop of milk.
"I think you got it all, boy," she chuckles. She reaches down, takes the bowl from him, brings it over to the sink, washes it out, rinses it and lays it on the drying rack. She glances down at her watch, sees that it's it just before six in the morning. That gives her enough time for a run and another shower.
And then a twenty-minute drive into downtown Los Angeles to meet with the Naval psychiatrist – Doctor Crosby - that had been assigned to her "case". Since her release from the hospital, she's been forced to go see him every two weeks for an hour at a time.
It's hell, and she hates it, but rationally, she understands the reasons behind forcing her to see him; her bosses – Vance and Hetty – want to know that she's okay, that her recovery is on schedule.
It's a bit of a farce, though, because everyone knows that it's not. Everyone knows that she's just going through the motions of pretending to heal.
On this morning, her mind isn't yet on Crosby. Instead, she's concentrating on the run that she's about to take. Preparing for it, she ties on her sneakers, straps on an ankle holster with a loaded .32, grabs a leash and then makes her way with Monty down to a running path about a quarter mile from her rented bungalow. She slips on her earphones, turns on her iPod (selecting a playlist full of excessively loud rock music), and starts into a steady jog down the trail.
At first, her mind spins with thoughts about anything and everything around her – it always does that – but eventually as the tempo of the hard rock kicks up, and musical notes fill her exhausted brain, everything else fades away. Everything but the feeling of her feet slamming repeatedly against the unforgiving pavement, and the beat of Van Halen echoing through her ears.
After returning to her bungalow about an hour and several miles later, she showers again - ever since what'd happened to her (she calls it that, too – "what had happened", never anything else), she's become somewhat OCD about showering. At least twice a day, sometimes even three or four times. It's almost like she feels like she can never quite get clean.
She's never told Dr. Crosby about this because she knows what he'd say. She knows that he'd tell her that she's suffering from some kind of posttraumatic stress disorder. In fact, he has told her this at least a half dozen times.
Each and every time, she's laughed. Out loud and pretty much in his face. She doesn't tell him why, doesn't tell him of the cruel irony associated with diagnosing her with PTSD. Then again, she's told her shrink very little.
And yet every other week, she shows up at his office as ordered and they dance the dance for sixty minutes. She tells him she's fine. He tells her he knows better. She replies that maybe he knows other patients, but he doesn't know her.
But of course, he's right, and she she's wrong and they both know it.
She's far from fine (or okay or all right or any other synonym of the word "fine" that anyone can come up with) but it's only in the darkness of her own bedroom and with the alarm clock on her nightstand again reminding her that she's awake at an obscene hour of the night that she's able to admit it to herself.
And usually only then because the headaches tend to start around that time.
In any case, she'll never admit any of this anyone else. Never to Hetty, never to the guys, and most certainly never to a man that she doesn't trust or even particularly like (no offense to Crosby, and with respect to Nate, but she doesn't quite believe in psychology or psychiatry. To her, they're bullshit snake-oil "sciences" and she has no use for them).
After her shower, she pulls her wet hair back into a loose ponytail, and changes into jeans, a white shirt and a gray zip-up hoodie. On her way out the door, she gives Monty a quick scratch behind the ears, and a kiss on the top of his head.
He's a good dog, an easy dog to love. A lot like his former master in that way.
She makes her way out to her Cadillac, and slides herself behind the wheel. She does a pre-flight check, and then starts up the engine.
She makes the drive to the office of her psychiatrist within twenty minutes, managing to use a series of side streets to bypass the majority of the nasty and congested Los Angeles morning traffic. For a moment, as she waits at a light to turn into the parking lot, her mind drifts back to who had shown her this route many months earlier (though he'd shown her it then not so she could go see a psychiatrist, but rather so that they could interview a material witness in a triple homicide case), but she quickly pushes the thought away.
Because he (she can't even bring herself to say his name because when she does, it brings on a whole load of emotions and memories) is off limits.
Completely one hundred percent off limits.
Even Dr. Crosby has figured this out by now.
"Good morning, Agent Blye," the secretary says as she enters. "Would you like some coffee?"
Kensi shakes her head, "No, thanks."
"He's ready for you then," the receptionist tells her with a bright smile.
Kensi nods and crosses the room, opening a door, and then entering the office of Doctor Thomas Crosby. A reservist in the Navy, Crosby is the go-to guy for extremely sensitive and difficult cases. As a general rule, anything involving NCIS OSP is sensitive. She assumes that she's what classifies it as difficult.
"How are you this morning, Kensi?" he asks, his voice soft. He's about as tall as Nate, but about ten years older than him, somewhere in his forties.
"I'm well, Doc," she answers, sitting on the couch across from him. As usual, her eyes flicker around his office, taking in pictures of him with family and friends. There's one on his desk of him with a woman and three young kids.
"You don't look like you slept last night," he mentions, his voice easy and conversational. She looks him over, taking in his business casual appearance. He doesn't look at all like a solider, and she rather doubts that he's spent much time (if any at all) actually firing weapons or taking enemy fire in the trenches.
While she would never be so arrogant as to dismiss him simply because of his occupation (or his lack of battle experience), she admits to herself (all while denying that this is just an excuse to keep her from opening up to him) that it is difficult to feel any kind of connection to a man who simply cannot begin to understand what she is going through.
"I slept," she replies simply.
"How many hours?"
"Enough," she shrugs.
"Enough," he repeats. "You know, enough is different for everyone. Some people can survive on four hours a night, while others need at least six or seven. My guess is that you're not getting either of those. Three maybe?"
She just looks back at him, her level gaze telling him that she's not interested in even pretending to have this conversation with him.
"Right," he nods, scribbling something down onto his notepad. She'd love little more than to grab that damned pad and huck it into a fireplace somewhere. Or maybe tear it into tiny little pieces and throw them all over his office.
"You're smiling," he notes.
"Am I?" she replies, realizing that she must have allowed some of her amusement at the idea of destroying his notepad surface.
"You are. That's a good thing."
"Great. Does that mean we're done here?"
He laughs. "Not even close. Today is a big one, Kensi. We have a lot that we need to get through."
"Well, Doc, you have…" she glances at her watch, "fifty-three minutes."
"Afraid not. I've cleared both of our schedules for the day."
"Excuse me?"
"You know what today is, yes?"
She takes a deep breath. She knows very well today is. She's great at remembering the anniversaries if the tragedies that line the walls of her life. "Yeah," she answers. "It's the six month anniversary of…what happened."
"Right. And as such, your agency – NCIS – well they want to know if you're ready to be released to full active duty."
"I am," she tells him.
He chuckles. "If only it were that easy."
"Never is. And what happens if you decide I'm not ready to return to the field?"
"Then we'll have to figure out what the next step for you will be at that time."
"What does that mean?" she asks, her voice thick with emotion – mostly anger. He'd be delighted to see any emotion at all from her normally, but over the last six months, he's seen sparks of this one. Just sparks, though, because she's always very quick to reign herself in. "Am I…am I in danger of losing my job?"
Saying those words aloud is enough to send a shockwave of panic through her. She feels her heart begin to pound, and has to forcibly will herself to calm down, to not lose control. Not here, not at all.
He puts down his notepad and leans forward. "You need to understand, your unit is currently operating at half-staff. Hetty has managed to keep it that way for the last six months, but even as impressive as she is, she can only delay things so long. Her superiors want the status quo restored ASAP. That means either you return to full field duty or…"
"Or I'm replaced. Got it."
"Which isn't what anyone wants."
"No, of course not," she answers dryly, clearly not believing his words. Then, her voice flat and showing almost no discernable emotion (even anger now), she says, "Tell me what do I need to do to get you to sign off on me returning to active duty."
"So you do want to stay with the OSP?"
"Have I given you any reason to believe otherwise?"
"Honestly, Kensi, you're a very difficult woman to read."
She smirks in response.
"You like hearing that?"
"In the job I do, being difficult to read is an important quality to have so yes, I like to hear it. It means I'm good at what I do."
"But there's more to it than that, isn't there?"
The smirk falls away, replaced by what he can only describe as exhausted resignation. "Doc, what do I need to do to convince you? Just tell me that, okay?"
He nods. "Okay. Fine." He picks up his notepad again. "It's actually pretty simple; I need you to talk to me."
"I am."
"No, you're not. You're talking as much as you ever do, and I think we both know that you're not actually saying anything. You know, I don't think I've told you this before, but when I was given this case, the first thing I did was speak to the psychologist that had been formerly assigned to your unit."
"Nate."
Crosby nods. "He told me that you wouldn't open up easily. He said that you'd spent most of your life keeping secrets and protecting them and having to be – and these are his words not mine – 'not only the toughest woman in the room, but the toughest man as well'. He told me that if I could get through to you, I ought to put myself up for an award of some kind."
She chuckles, but makes no move to correct Nate's words.
"He also told me that you would try every trick you know to keep me from finding out so much as what brand of toothpaste you use."
"He's right. Again, that's my job. If I'm an open book, I'll get made by the bad guys inside of five minutes, and then, Doc, people die."
"And I respect that to a degree. You're not the first undercover operative that I've ever worked with. I've debriefed more than a few agents returning from long missions. I know what you guys go through."
"You know on paper," she corrects.
"Fair enough," he nods. "But I do get what you guys do and why you do it. I also understand that keeping everything locked away might seem like the best way to protect yourself, but it's not. In my honest evaluation, Kensi, you are a ticking time bomb of emotion and anger and you will eventually go off. And when you do, you're going to end up hurting not only yourself, but most likely someone you care deeply about, someone close to you. One of your teammates maybe."
"So that's it? That's what you're going to tell my bosses?" she demands, eyes flaring with anger. The idea of her ever putting Sam or Callen in any danger infuriates her – and sickens her. Partially because he's probably right.
"No. Not yet anyway. I'm going to give you a chance to change my mind."
"By opening up and telling you what brand of toothpaste I use?" she spits out, disgust in her tone.
Thankfully, he ignores the tone and pushes on. She might be one of the most stubborn agents that he's ever had to work with, but she's far from the most damaged (though he has to admit, she is close judging by a read-through of her case file). He knows that the only way he pulls her through this is by staying patient and calm, and convincing her to open up and talk to him.
"If you'd like to start there, that's fine," Crosby replies. "But at the end of this conversation, I need to know that you're in a mental place that I think you can grow from. I need to know it, believe it, and be able to sell your bosses on it. If we can't come to that place together, then I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to recommend that you be reassigned to a different unit."
"Away from the OSP," she says quietly.
"Yes. Most likely you'd be reassigned to an office job. Perhaps in DC or in San Diego. Maybe that's not the worst thing in the world, Kensi. Maybe after all you've been through; a fresh start would be a good idea. "
"You're wrong," she says simply. "This is where I belong. This is…this is where I want to be."
And that's the truth. This job – even if she's still partially on the bench, not yet cleared for fieldwork - well, it's all she has left.
No, she corrects herself, it's not the job, it's the people.
Callen. Sam. Eric. Hetty. They are all she has left, and the idea of not seeing them every day terrifies her more than she cares to admit to anyone.
"Then convince me of that.
She lets out a small sigh. "Okay," she says, throwing up her hands in surrender. "We'll do it your way, but…but I have some ground rules."
He seems surprised. "Ground rules?"
"Yes. No talk about my father. At all."
"Acceptable. While I think you have numerous unresolved issues related to his murder, they're not germane to the current situation."
"Also, nothing about my ex."
"Also not germane, but also unresolved."
She ignores him, and pushes on for the big one. "And nothing about him."
"Detective Deeks, I presume?"
He sees her flinch in reaction to Deeks' name, and can't help but wonder how often she's heard it said aloud over the last six months. He wonders if her team has been willingly dancing around her issues, acting as though her former partner had never existed so as to spare her additional pain.
"Yes," she grits out.
"I'm sorry, but that one is off the table. Detective Deeks is entirely relevant to this discussion. In fact, I think your relationship and your feelings about what happened to him is a large part of why your recovery has been so…stilted."
She wants to tell him off, wants to insist that there's absolutely no way she'll talk to him about Deeks, but she knows that there's no point in even trying.
Right now, Crosby is the one in charge. He's the one holding all the cards. He's the one that gets to decide whether she can return to the job and the people she loves (and needs) or ends up being transferred to an office somewhere else.
"I don't want to do this," she says softly, almost petulantly. She hates that this man is going to be allowed to see her weak and vulnerable. She hates that she's not being given the choice. It reminds her a little bit of…
No. She stops that thought right there.
Since telling Nate the story of what Kassel had forced her to do in the apartment that she and Deeks had shared during the op, she hasn't spoken a word of the tale to anyone else. She has no desire to start now.
She can only pray that Crosby will leave it alone today as well, but she rather doubts he will. And honestly, right now, she's not sure what the bigger minefield is – the loss of Deeks or the time spent on the couch with Kassel.
With his hands on her and in her and oh God…
"Kensi?"
For a moment, all she hears is the pounding of her hears.
"Kensi?"
"Hm?" she blinks, pulling herself back to the now.
"Is something wrong? You look like…well you look like whatever you're thinking about has upset you."
She shakes her head. "No. It's…let's get on with this."
"Okay," Crosby nods, still watching her with some curiosity. "Then let's go backwards. Let's start with the day you were released from the hospital."
"We're going that far back?"
"I think we need to."
"All right. But…just…everything we say here, it's private, right? You won't…anything I say…you won't tell anyone, right?" She's practically pleading.
He offers her a smile, meant to calm her. "My report will simply state whether or not I feel as though you are fit for duty. I might gloss over certain issues such as your PTSD and your survivor's guilt," he pauses for the briefest of moments, watching as she opens her mouth to deny his words, but then quickly clamps it shut. He continues, "But I can promise you, I won't go into any detail. I will do everything I can to preserve your privacy. Sufficient?"
"I suppose it'll have to be, right?"
"I'm sorry," he says, truly feeling for the woman in front of him. He's been treating her for six months, and never has he seen her look as vulnerable, sad and utterly lost as she does right now.
"Aren't we all?" she replies. Then, reluctantly starting her story, she says, "Sam and Callen came to pick me up the day I got released."
There are no triumphant coming home parties. Even if the gang had wanted to throw her one, they'd known that she wouldn't be receptive to it. And besides, considering the loss and supposed death of Deeks, her release is so far beyond bittersweet that it's almost on the sour side of the taste spectrum.
On the day she's finally let out of the hospital, almost three weeks after she'd first been brought in, she's extremely tired and still in a considerable amount of pain thanks to her head injury and multiple broken bones, and she wants little more than to be sound asleep and completely ignorant of the world around her.
The guys – Callen and Sam – come to get her. She can tell that she worries them both when she doesn't refuse the wheelchair exit as she's done so many times in the past. Callen pushes her out, and then Sam helps her up, sliding a hand just beneath her elbow so as to steady her on her feet.
"Where's the Dodge?" she asks, looking around the parking lot.
"We thought you'd like something a little roomier," Callen says, indicating towards a large black SUV.
She lifts an eyebrow, but says nothing. It's only after taking half a dozen steps towards the SVU when she realizes that Sam is pretty much walking with her, his hand still ridiculously close to her elbow as if to catch her should she suddenly stumble and fall. "Sam," she says, lifting her dark eyes up to meet his.
He smiles sheepishly in return, and she thinks maybe she sees some relief there. She knows these men well, knows that they're looking at her and hoping for some sign of the headstrong tough as nails woman they know and love.
And though right now, the very last thing she wants to be doing is putting on a show for anyone, it's exactly what she does. For them.
"Guys," she says to both of them, her tone gentle but firm. "I'm fine. Really. They wouldn't have released me if I wasn't."
Callen shrugs. "They released me before I was fully healed up." He points towards her head, where a bandage is still settled over the wound on the side of it. This bandage is much smaller than the one she'd been wearing during her first few days in the hospital, but it still reminds her of how very close she'd come to the end of it all. How very close to dead – or worse – she'd actually been.
"Well, I heal quicker," she replies, offering him what she hopes is a cocky smile.
It seems to work because he backs of a bit. He opens the door to the SUV, waits for her to get in, and then closes it behind her. He tosses a look over at Sam. Perhaps it's a hopeful one. Perhaps they're both praying that after everything they've lost thanks to this job, they haven't lost her, too.
They get her back to her place, and settle her on the couch with a cup of tea and a bag of tortilla chips. She thinks their attention is sweet, but annoying. She's more than a little bit relieved when they both finally leave. The last thing Callen says before he exits is simply, "Get back to work. You're missed."
After they leave, she heads into her bedroom and sits on the bed. She looks around, feeling the emptiness and quiet of the room. Strange considering that she's never really shared this room with anyone (she and Jack had lived at another apartment entirely). And yet, she feels her partner's absence.
Four weeks of sleeping beside him, four weeks of hearing him breathe next to her, four weeks of hearing him talk in his sleep at odd hours of the night. She'd never mentioned that to him, but then again, he'd never said a word to her about her habit of rolling into his arms on a few nights (something she'd woken up and realized she'd done one evening, but had kept to herself simply because talking about it with him would have forced her to find a way to stop doing it).
Four weeks of being side by side with him, and dammit If she doesn't miss him.
It's at that moment when she decides that she's going to take care of Monty – at least until Deeks is found and brought home. She figures it's the very least she can do for her partner. The very least.
After almost twenty of minutes of just sitting on the bed, she decides to try to calm herself down by taking a bath. She figures it will settle herself enough to be able to fall asleep. She loads up the warm water with bubbles, and slides herself in. It's then when she realizes that she's still clothed. She laughs loudly, the sound echoing off the tiles and the high ceiling of the bathroom. And as the sound boomerangs back to her, the mirth turns to pain, the laughers to dry sobs.
The fit doesn't last terribly long, but by the time it's done, she's utterly exhausted and absolutely furious with herself. She brushes away the tears roughly, tells herself that she will not do that again, and climbs out of the bath.
She changes into pajamas, lies down, and tries to sleep. It doesn't go easy for her, though. Despite her release, Callen is right; her body is still in bad shape, and far from healed. The breaks in her bones remind of her of that all throughout the night. The worst of it, though, is the headache that comes on around two in the morning. It literally feels as though her skull is being torn apart.
It takes everything she has – every bit of stubbornness, strength and will - not to grab at the painkillers that the hospital had sent home with her. She's set and determined that she's done using them. When she realizes that she's starting to give in to the need to just make the pain stop, she gets up and flushes them down the toilet. No temptation, and therefore no more weakness possible.
Finally, exhausted by the sheer effort of trying to fight off the waves of pain (as well as the emotions which continue to try to surge forward, threatening to overwhelm her again), she passes out around four in the morning and sleeps for the next six hours.
In the months to come, she'll wonder what it feels like to get six hours of sleep.
She watches as Crosby leafs through his file, stopping when he gets to her medical charts. "So you've had headaches from day one, yes?"
She nods.
"Have they lessened at all?"
"Somewhat," she says.
"Are you taking anything for them?"
"Excedrin every now and again."
"Does it help?"
She shrugs.
"I'll take that as a 'kind of' then?"
"Sure."
"Okay. So how long were you at home before you went back to the office? And yes, I know I have this all in my file, but humor me, all right?"
"Two months. My doctor wouldn't clear me before then because of the head injury, and the…heart issues."
"He was afraid you might have a reaction when the adrenaline kicked in?"
"Yes."
"But I doubt you'd exactly been hanging out on your couch for the whole two months you were on full medical leave. You probably worked out quite a bit."
"Had to stay in shape," she admits.
"Any issues with working out?"
She hesitates for a moment, clearly not wanting to respond.
"Keep in mind that I also have your medical file here. I know about second trip to the hospital."
She scowls then, showing clear annoyance (though he thinks he sees something else – maybe like relief? He wonders if there's some secret she's holding that's not in any of the files, something she plans to stubbornly hold onto). "Then why are we doing this?"
"Again, humor me. Your teammates found you, correct?"
She sighs again. "Yes. They overreacted."
All it takes is seeing herself in the mirror to know that she's not in anything resembling fighting shape. She's lost a good amount of weight – which is a bad thing because she'd been pretty slim to begin with – and as of late, even a walk across the complex to the community mailbox has been tiring.
Rationally, she knows that it's far too soon to return to her typical fitness regimen, but she just doesn't care. She has to get back in shape. She has to get strong.
She has to be strong so that when the day arrives when she's able to come face to face with Christopher Kassel, she'll be able to pay him back for everything he's done and everything he's taken from her. And there's been so much.
She changes into workout sweats – old ratty gray ones – and starts with sit-ups and push-ups. She presses, and forces herself to continue going even after the headache starts. Even when her vision begins to swim, she tells herself that she's just dehydrated, and she pounds down multiple bottles of water all the while knowing deep down that it's so much more than that.
Things don't get really bad, though, until she pulls out the punching bag.
Somewhere along the way, she becomes completely unaware of what she's doing or what's happening. She's just hitting the bag, over and over and over again, completely lost in the rhythm of her punches and kicks.
Until her mind kicks in and she starts seeing the images in front of her eyes.
She sees herself with him on the beach laughing like they don't have a care in the world. She sees herself walk into his arms when he realizes that he doesn't have the ability to damn their next door neighbor to a life of heroin addiction.
Then she sees Kassel, sees him above her, forcing her to keep eye contact with him when the only thing she wants to do is force her mind to be a million miles away. She feels his hands roaming her body, invasive and controlling.
And then she's back with Deeks. He's holding her, pulling her close, his hands warm against the flesh of her back as he pulls her against his bare chest.
Everything speeds up after that. Suddenly they're in the warehouse, and she sees herself being punched and hit. She hears Deeks saying her name. And then she's being dragged down a hallway. She hears the gunshots – only in her mind, she hears far more than just two of them, she hears dozens.
That's when the pain in her chest starts. She knows right away that something is very wrong with her, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to have a heart attack. Suddenly, she can't breathe. She falls to the ground, gasping desperately.
She thinks about her phone, which is across the room. She thinks about crawling to it, but even the thought of movement sends another shockwave running from her chest up to brain. Everything from her head to her heart feels like it's on fire.
Her vision fogs over completely as the pain intensifies. She sees colors swirling, and she wonders for a moment if she's somehow been injected with another dose of heroin. It's not possible, of course, but the helpless agony of this reminds her a lot of those minutes lying on the cement floor of that horrible warehouse.
Vaguely, somewhere in the distance, she thinks she hears the sound of a knock on her front door. She tries to call out, but no sound beyond a slight whimper finds its way from between her lips. There's another knock, and then the click of a key in the door. She hears it open, and then she hears footsteps.
"Hey, Kensi, we brought you some…Kensi!"
She looks up and sees Callen above her. And then Sam. One of them is holding her, while the other speaks into his phone, barking out words that she can't understand. She feels a hand slip into hers. Desperately, she clutches at it.
This moment is so familiar to all of them. For Callen and Sam, they were here just a few months ago, holding her in the middle of a warehouse as she shook. For her, it's a return to a moment of helplessness and absolute fear.
Then, she'd called out her father's name. This time, she calls out for Deeks.
It's the last time she'll say his name until she's forced to do so in Dr. Crosby's office several months later.
When she comes to a bit later, she's back in a hospital bed, wires once again attached to her.
"Hey," Callen says, standing up the moment he sees her eyes open.
"Callen?"
"Are you insane?" His voice sparks with anger.
"What?"
"You're supposed to be taking it easy," Callen says, and she sees the worry deep in his blue eyes.
"I…I don't know what happened," she says softly. There's enough of a waver in her voice to make him back off. He can tell that she's scared.
"What are you doing to yourself?"
"Callen, I don't know what happened," she repeats as she looks around the hospital room, still plainly confused. "One minute I was working out –"
"Which you shouldn't have been," Sam says from the doorway. He's sipping from a cup, probably filled with tea.
"I had to. I couldn't just sit around and do nothing. I had – I have to get back in shape," she insists, her eyes moving between the two men, trying to make them understand why she needs this so badly.
"You're clearly not ready," Callen tells her. "You had a panic attack."
"What?" she seems truly astonished by this. Panic is not a word that she has ever associated with herself.
"Your heart is still not fully recovered from what happened to you. Nor is your head. Something…triggered this…and you panicked. If we hadn't been stopping by to bring you lunch, I don't…dammit, Kensi."
"No," she says shaking her head. "I don't…no."
Sam steps forward, taking on the role of the calm one because it's clear that for now at least, Callen isn't able to. "Kensi, you've been through hell. You need to slow down. You need to let yourself recover."
"We have to find him," she replies, for a moment not even bothering to pretend that it's about anything else. "And we can't do that if I'm on my back or relaxing on my couch. We have to find him."
"We're still looking for him," Callen promises. "Every moment of every day, Kens. We won't stop until we find him, but you're doing him no good by doing this to yourself. You're doing us no good."
She sighs and gives in. "Don't imagine we can keep this from Hetty, huh?" She offers up the best smile she can pull forward. It's not much, but then again, it's never taken her much effort to be able to charm and sweet-talk these two into doing just about anything she wants them to.
Both men laugh. Callen shakes his head. "No chance, no way. She's out in the hall talking to your doctor. You'll be lucky not to have a nurse assigned to you when you get to go home again."
"You're kidding, right?"
"If he is, it's not because I didn't try, Ms. Blye," Hetty says as she enters the room, a stern look on her face. "Gentlemen, may we have a moment?"
The men exchange a worried glance.
"What do you think I'm going to do?" Hetty asks, admonishing them with her tone. "Out, now."
Reluctantly, they turn and leave. Hetty shuts the door behind them, and turns to face the youngest member of her team.
"I know," Kensi says, trying to cut her off. "It was too soon."
"And it is far too soon to lose another member of this family as well," Hetty says, her voice astonishingly soft. It's just about enough to break Kensi's heart.
"I'm sorry," Kensi offers.
"I know you are, dearie, and I know that you feel helpless right now. I do as well. Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do, but hope for a break or a lucky turn. Until then, we need to stay alert and ready so that when the chance to get to Mr. Deeks arrives, nothing will stand in our way."
"That's what I was trying to do. Stay alert. Be ready."
"And that means allowing yourself to heal on the schedule your body wants it to heal on. No sooner, do you understand?"
"Yes."
"We need you back, Ms. Blye. I need you back." Hetty then reaches out and takes her hand. She doesn't squeeze it so much as gently pat it. And then, a smile snaking across her face, she asks, "Do you suppose we should raise our voices a bit, see if we can't worry Mr. Hanna and Mr. Callen?"
Kensi laughs. "I think we'll let them off the hook this time."
Hetty shrugs. "If you insist."
"Just this once."
"Fine. Gentlemen, you can stop leaning on the door and come in."
They enter immediately, both wearing guilty looks. "He was leaning," Sam says. "I was standing guard."
"Mm hmm. I need to be getting back to the office. I trust you'll ensure Ms. Blye is well taken care of?"
"You haven't already ensured that?" Callen asks with a slight smirk.
Hetty just smiles in response, then turns and leaves.
"You spent just one night in the hospital for that one?" Crosby asks, again looking down at the medical file.
"Just one night," Kensi confirms. "And when I got sent home, it was with strict orders not to work out at all. Not until my person physician cleared me to."
"How long did that take?"
"Two months total."
"And then you were cleared for everything, but active field duty."
"Right. I could work out in the gym and the firing range, and help around Ops, but I wasn't allowed to go out and interrogate anyone or do anything that might require me to have to use my gun or chase anyone down."
"I expect that was hard."
She shrugs, which he's come to understand as the motion she makes when she doesn't really want to discuss something.
"Kensi."
"Yes, it was hard," she snaps back. "It was awful. I hate being inside and not being able to do anything."
"I'm sure that there's a lot to do around the office."
"Nothing I'm good at."
"And what do you consider yourself good at?"
She says nothing for a moment, her lips pursing into a thin flat line.
"Is this a difficult question?"
"No," she says finally. "It's just…I'd rather my answer be off the record. Completely. As in, no judgments, okay?"
"I'm intrigued. Okay. Go ahead."
"What I'm good at," she says softly, "Is killing. And I know how that sounds. And I know it's awful, but it's what I do best. I end lives."
"Interesting that you see it that way."
"I don't understand."
"What I mean is, you see it as taking lives instead of saving them. Why do you think that is?"
"I…I don't know. I guess we…I don't get to spend a lot of time with the people we save. We kill the bad guys or sometimes if they're lucky, we put them behind bars, and then the people who we save – if there is anyone – they just kind of disappear. No cards, no thank yous. They're just gone."
"Leaving you with?"
"More bodies."
He nods. "Does that weigh on you after awhile?"
"That's the weird part," she replies. "It doesn't. And I don't mean that in the 'I'm just not dealing with it' kind of way. I mean I don't spend a lot of time caring about these guys. They're usually monsters, and I don't waste energy on them. Does that…what does that make me in your mind?"
"You said no judgments," he reminds her. "But, from where I stand, you're doing your job as you need to. It's violent and often gruesome and you're all expected to basically suck it up and deal with it. You agents build up protective walls to absorb the emotional blowback of your actions, and for the most part, the walls work. Until something like what happened with you and Detective Deeks occurs, and then, well frankly no wall in the world can take on all of that."
"Right," she says softly. He thinks he sees a hint of moisture in her eyes.
"Let's talk about your first day back."
"Not much happened," she replies, pulling herself back together. She flicks a hand up towards her eyes, sweeping away the stray moisture. He pretends not to notice knowing that if he calls it out, he'll lose the fragile connection with her that he's started to form. "Just a lot of paperwork."
"Okay, then talk to me about your issues on the range."
He sees her jaw clench, and then she shakes her head, annoyance showing in both her suddenly screamingly loud body language and in her dark eyes. "I'm the best shot on the team," she tells him. "Or at least, I used to be."
She stares at the target in her hand in disbelief, her dark eyes wide as she takes in the circular holes along the edges of the paper man. Usually they're dead center, signs of her nearly perfect (if not perfect) aim.
"Looks like you're having an off-day," Callen says from where he's standing behind her, still close to the door of the room. He's stating the obvious, of course, his soft voice sounding slightly concerned.
"I…"
Looking at the target with its holes off-center, she can't help but wonder if after everything that's happened, if she's lost one of the few things that she's always counted on. On this squad, she's always had two calling cards – her ability to seduce any man she wants to and her talent for taking out any target from just about any distance. She's always been the team's sharp-shooter.
At least until today.
"It happens," Callen tells her with a shrug meant to suggest that what they're seeing is no big deal. "You're still recovering from a pretty serious head wound, Kens. You just need a bit more time to heal and a bit more time in here, and your aim will come back. You'll be sniping again in no time."
"Yeah?" There's uncharacteristic doubt in her voice, and it infuriates her to hear it, but she can't quite keep it from seeping through.
"Yeah," he assures her. He leans over her shoulder, stepping into her personal space. There are only a small handful of people she will allow to do this. Five total. And one of them is still missing in action. "That one's pretty close," he says, reaching out to touch one of the holes on the target.
"Close," she repeats.
"It'll be okay," he says.
She nods, choosing to believe him even if the voice in the back of her head – the one that has been chirping a lot lately - is insisting that he's just trying to make her feel better. That's what a team leader does, the voice says.
"Now, pizza is here. Come eat."
"I'm good," she replies.
His eyebrow goes up. "You're saying no to pizza? Since when?"
"I'm just not hungry," she laughs.
"Uh huh. What if we drip chocolate syrup all over it?"
He immediately regrets his words, seeing first a small smile and then a look of pained grief streak across her face. She's clearly thinking about him.
"Kens…"
"I'm good. It's just…I'm gonna keep at it up here for awhile.."
"Okay. Pizza will be down there if you want it."
"Thanks."
He turns to leave, hoping that she'll call him back.
She doesn't.
"And your aim, has it returned?" Crosby asks, still writing in his notepad.
"Not completely. I mean, I was able to qualify to carry, and my shot is still probably better than Callen's, but it's not what it was."
"Have you had any neurological exams to try to find out why?"
"No need to. Callen's right; I just need more practice."
"That's pretty much how you deal with everything, right? Push harder, keep pushing until you get what you want or where you need to go?"
"Always worked for me before," she replies defiantly.
"And does that help you get over your feelings about him? Does it help you come to peace with his loss?"
She purses her lips, but says nothing.
"Why is it so hard to talk about him, Kensi?"
She looks down at her hands, then says quietly, "He was my partner."
"Was. You believe he's dead?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
"To my understanding, the official status of Detective Deeks is Missing in Action."
"It's been six months," she replies with a shake of her head. "Six months. If he is still alive, God only knows what that…what he's done to him."
"We're talking about Kassel now."
"Yes."
"Should we talk about what he did to you?"
"No," she snaps back, anger flashing. "You want to force me to talk about…" She takes a breath and then spits out, "Deeks…fine. But I have said all I am going to say about what happened with Kassel. I made the choice for the good of the op. I can live with that choice. Period. End of subject."
"And what if I tell you that you returning to duty depends on you talking to me about the attack. What then?"
"Well first, it wasn't an attack. Like I said, it was a choice."
"You don't see it as rape?"
"No," she practically growls. "And second, if my returns depends on me talking to you about that, then we're both wasting each other's time."
They stare at each other for a long moment, her eyes locked with his. Finally, he smiles slightly, and nods. "All right then, Kensi, why don't you talk to me about your panic attacks."
"Attack. I've only had one."
He tilts his head, letting her know that he knows better. He lifts an eyebrow.
"None of them are as bad as the first one was," she insists. She's tired and worn out. They've been at this for hours, and she's just about done. She's starting to get the point of no longer caring. "And I haven't had one in over a month. Not since the morning I had to re-qualify at the range. And that was just a small one, more like a…case of nerves."
"So, let's talk about your PTSD."
"I don't have PTSD."
"I find it interesting that you of all people would miss the obvious signs of it."
She meets his gaze evenly. "You agreed not to talk about him."
He smiles slightly. "All right, but would you admit that you have survivor's guilt?"
Her eyes flicker up to his. "He was my partner. It was my job to watch his back. I clearly didn't do that so yes, I have guilt over that."
"You were in it together. You almost didn't survive."
"But I did."
"And it's possible he's still out there."
"I hope to God he's not."
It nearly breaks her heart to say the words, but there's a strange and enormous sense of relief in getting them out and on the table.
"Why?"
"I said it earlier, Doc. If he's alive still, they've hurt him so badly. Sanchez said that they were going to try to flip him, but I know Deeks. He's a very good man. He's an incorruptible man. There's no way they're going to make him turn his back on us. Marty Deeks wouldn't do that. I know him."
"Which means?"
"Which means if he's still alive, Kassel is torturing him just for his own sick amusement. You don't understand that guy – he does things, he plays with people for no reason other than because he can."
"Like he played with you."
She flinches again.
"Direct hit," Crosby observes.
"We're not doing this."
"Apologies," he says with a wave of his hand. "You were saying about Deeks?
"You're a giant pain in the ass, you know that?" she snaps.
"Something tells me, Kensi, that you've been called that a couple dozen times in your life as well."
She smiles slightly. Then, growing serious. "I'm just saying, I hope…I think…I…it'd have been best if he'd died six months ago."
"And if he had, how would that make you feel?"
"How do you think it'd make me feel? He was my partner. And my friend."
"And more?"
She looks up and meets his eyes. He sees such sadness in her dark mismatched orbs, such pain and loneliness. Finally, quietly, "We took care of each other. That's all you need to know. That's all that's important, okay?"
"I can accept that," Crosby nods. "So, let's bring it back to you for now. Your aim is diminished…"
"It's still good."
"And there are still concerns about you having another panic attack."
"I told you, it's been over a month since the last one. I'm fine."
"Are you?"
"I have my good days, and my bad days, but my physician has cleared me for duty. He says I can do the job. You're the only one who thinks I can't, Doc."
"No, Kensi, you misunderstand. I think you can do the job. I'm certain you can. I'm just not completely convinced that it's in anyone's best interests for you to do it. This job has taken so much from you."
"I knew what I was getting into."
"Okay. So tell me, if you could go back to that last day, what would you do differently? Would you have walked away when you had the chance?"
She thinks about that for a moment, thinks back to standing with Deeks in the doorway of the apartment, just seconds away from walking away from the mission. Then Sanchez had called, and she had convinced him to stay in.
Why?
Anger, fury, revenge?
All of those things, sure.
But duty, too. They'd had a job to do and walking away meant Kassel would get away. And yes, it'd been personal, but there'd been no doubt that the son of a bitch had to be stopped before he could hurt anyone else.
They'd failed in their duty, but not for lack of trying.
"I let my emotions get in the way," she finally says.
"So you would walk away if you could do it again?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. "We still had a job to do. But if I could do it over, I think we both would have forced Sanchez to meet us on our turf, where we could control it. Both of us should have known that something was up – we were so eager to end it that we ignored the warning signs. Deeks did and I did."
"Okay," Crosby says, scribbling in his notepad again. Then he shuts it.
"What's that mean?"
"It means we're done for the day, Kensi. You've been here all morning, and you're clearly exhausted. Go home and try to get some rest."
"I do try," she says. "It just…doesn't come."
"And it might not for awhile yet, but eventually, the nightmares will go to once or twice a week instead of every night."
"With all due respect, Doc, you really don't understand what we do. I had nightmares long before this op. Sometimes every night. These…they're just a different movie, that's all."
"So why aren't you sleeping?"
She doesn't really have an answer to that.
"Is it because you see him in your nightmares, and you don't want to?"
"Depends on which him we're talking about?"
"Either."
She just shrugs.
"You're going to stonewall me now? Really?"
"You sound like him," she says softly.
"I assume this time we're talking about Detective Deeks?"
"Yeah." Then, blinking and shaking the thoughts of her partner away, she says, "So, what's the verdict? Am I headed for the NCIS office in Iowa or are you going to let me return to my team?"
"Iowa? That's a terrible place to send someone," he chuckles. "All right here it is; my inclination right now is to sign you off and let you return to duty, but with the condition that you continue to be held back from deep cover jobs." He holds up his hand to silence her when he sees her start to protest. "Considering that this was your first one in the two and half years that you've been with the OSP, I don't think that will be a problem. At least in the short term."
"I can handle the deep cover. I could handle it before and I can handle it now."
"Oh, don't get me wrong, I have absolutely no doubt that you could force yourself to handle it, but that would be a grave disservice to you. Part of the healing process is accepting that something terrible happened, and dealing with it from there. Your deep cover case went bad - it happens in your line of work. For now, return to your comfort zone, and work your way back."
"So you're going to sign me off is what you're saying?"
"Yes."
She takes a moment to collect herself, and then finally says, softly, "Thank you."
"Thank me when the day comes when I say you don't have to come back next week," he says with a smile.
"Next week? Don't you mean two weeks from now?"
"No. I'm putting you on an every week rotation for now."
She shakes her head. "I'm not the open up type, Doc. That's not going to change just because you made me do it today. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to talk about him. With anyone."
"Then we'll talk about other things. But you do need to talk."
"Is this more blackmail? If I tell you that all I'll do is stare at you for sixty minutes a week, are you going to pull back your recommendation?"
He chuckles again. "First, I'm insulted by the word 'blackmail' however appropriate and correct it might be. Second, no, this is for you. If you want to just stare at me, we can do that. On the other hand, I'm here to listen. If all you want to talk about is how much you hate filling out paperwork, we can do that."
"We'll see," she says. "I don't like this. I don't…I don't want to do it."
"I know. I'll see you next week."
She stands up, nods at him as if she doesn't know what else to say or do, and then heads for the door.
"Kensi."
She sighs, and turns back. "Almost made it."
"Almost. When you're ready to talk about what Kassel did –"
"Don't hold your breath, Doc."
"Understood. Have a nice evening. And get some sleep."
She nods once more, and then turns and leaves, getting all the way out this time.
When she turns her phone back on, she finds no less than half a dozen calls from the guys. Apparently, they'd been given a heads up on her session with Crosby. In their voicemails, Sam and Callen go from joking to worried.
Not in the mood to talk to anyone else on this day, she simply sends both a text saying, "Everything is fine. I'll see you in the morning."
Then she snaps off her phone, gets into her car, and drives home.
She gets home, and isn't at all surprised to find that she has anxious energy surging through her. Thankfully, Monty is eager for a walk. She takes him to the jogging path, and they go for a long five-mile run. She's once again glad for the fact that Deeks worked with this pup enough to build some endurance into the little guy. He goes as long as she does, never losing step or slowing down.
When she gets back to her bungalow, she pours him a bowl of water, and then disappears into the bathroom for a long shower. Thankfully, he's a dog, and he doesn't care that she's in there for almost an hour.
Standing in the shower stall, she wants nothing more than to be able to cry, to let all of the emotions out that are surging through her thanks to Crosby.
She feels her partner's loss deep in her bones, and the guilt and anger runs through her veins as poisonously as the heroin had previously.
She presses her hands against the tiles in front of her, remembering a time when she'd let the emotion come out, remembering how she'd smashed the wall in the bathroom of the apartment she and Deeks had shared after her…time with Kassel. She can still remember the sight of her bright red blood turning pink as it mixed with the water and swirled down the shower drain.
She wants to hit the wall now, but she doesn't dare.
She can't lose control; she can't afford to. She may have convinced Crosby to sign her off, but deep down, she knows that every time she allows her emotion to surface, she's just seconds away from another panic attack.
And she's dead certain that another panic attack will spell the end of her career with NCIS – at least with the OSP side of things. She'd survived today's hurdle; she has no intention of having to jump any other ones. Even if that means denying herself the right to grieve and mourn Deeks' loss.
She turns off the shower, takes a deep breath, pulls herself together, and steps out. Even in the quiet solitude of her own apartment, she has to be strong.
Anything less is simply unacceptable.
It's quite late at night (maybe two in the morning) and she's somewhere between half asleep and half awake when her mind registers the sound of Monty growling.
She comes to slowly – gone for now apparently are the days where she's able to come to her senses immediately – her vision darkened by the lack of light in her room. She looks down at the foot of the bed, and seems him crouched there, teeth barred, glaring and growling at the closed door of her bedroom.
"Easy, Monty," she whispers, standing up – perhaps a bit too quickly. As the blood rushes to brain, she steadies herself. She breathes her way through a wave of nausea as it momentarily overtakes her. She rests her hand on the side of her head, waiting for the sudden pounding in her skull to cease.
And then she hears what sounds like something crashing from the front room.
Monty barks.
"Shh," she urges. "Shh. Down boy. Be quiet. I'm going to check it out."
She reaches into the nightstand drawer, and removes her Sig, She checks it to make sure it's loaded, and then slides her hand to the doorknob. She turns it clearly, wincing when it creaks.
Moving as slow as possible, she steps into the hallway. She can feel Monty just behind her, his tail brushing her flannel clad legs. She feels the bite of the cold apartment air on her bare arms, and silently curses the tank top she's wearing.
About halfway down the hallway, she comes to an abrupt stop. Just up ahead, she can see a tall figure standing in the Living Room, appearing as though he's looking down at her couch. He's about six feet tall, definitely male. She thinks she can see the bill of a baseball cap.
She slides herself against the wall, reaching out with her hand to find the switch she knows is there. She counts to three in her head, and then flips it, illuminating the room in bright white light. She winces as the pounding in her skull intensifies.
The man, whose black leather jacket adorned back is to her, freezes. Beneath his feet, she can see a broken picture frame. The picture in it is one of a fifteen year old her and her father standing on a tarmac.
"Turn around," she demands, eyes squinted. She has her gun pointed at him. "Very slowly. Hands up."
Slowly, he turns, the cap still over his eyes. He's still somewhat draped in darkness, his features not quite distinguishable thanks to the hat and the lack of light. She notices that he's got a gun in his left hand.
"Step towards me and drop the gun."
"I don't think so," he replies, his voice smooth…and familiar. Too familiar.
For a moment, she feels like she can't breathe. It can't possibly be. It can't.
But then he steps forward, and she sees his face. He doesn't quite look like the man she remembers – this Deeks is painfully thin, his cheekbones standing out sharply, his skin slightly waxy. His hair is shaggy as always, but his beard is completely unkempt. In short, he looks like a drug addict.
"Oh my God, Deeks," she gasps.
"Hey, darlin'," he replies, like he doesn't have a care in the world.
For a long moment, they just stand there staring at each other, both of them still pointing their guns at each other. Then, finally, slowly, she lowers her weapon.
It's just about the stupidest thing she could have done, and dammit, she should have known better. He sees his opening, lifts his own gun, and pulls the trigger.
Later - much later - she'll realize that Deek's mangy little rescue dog had saved her from his beloved master. For now, though, all she is aware of is a bundle of fur flying through the air, teeth out. She sees Monty's jaws snap down, latching onto Deek's arm, forcing the gun, which had been aimed right at her heart, to jerk spastically to the side, causing the fired bullet to soar away from its target.
And thank God for that.
She feels a flash of pain in her shoulder and drops down to her butt, hand over what appears to thankfully be little more than a painful bullet graze. She feels blood streaming between her fingers, but pays little attention to it, her eyes instead on the struggle between Deeks and Monty just a few feet away.
After a brief tussle, she hears a whimper and sees Deeks toss Monty away. The dog hits the ground with a thud, dazed, but seeming otherwise all right.
She doesn't have long to think about Monty, though, because just seconds later, Deeks is standing over her, his gun again pointed down at her. There's an almost cruel smile on his face, one she doesn't recognize – or like – at all.
"Deeks, no," she says, unable to formulate much more than that. Her shock is so severe that it's almost completely clouding her brain.
"Sorry, honey," he replies, his finger once again on the trigger of his gun. "Oh, and by the way, my name's not Deeks. It's Reese, Jimmy Reese."
-TBC