It should have stopped with Sullivan. Should have stopped with Dom, should have stopped with Renko. But the irony is that it never does. It's a fundamental part of their training – anything can happen, expect the unexpected – Kensi knows it in her bones, knows unquestioningly that anytime one of them walks into an op they run the risk of getting shot or killed. Yet to experience it firsthand, to lose someone who you trusted your life to, who you shared beers and gun-care and tradecraft tips with, spent hours on stakeouts with – that was a loss you never truly got over. And to have to keep experiencing that loss, each time just as heart wrenching and devastating, rips out another hole you try to tuck away somewhere unseen that can never be filled. It's no wonder she's learned to erect defenses a mile thick.
It's the nature of their jobs. They are trained for this, prepared for this, but not equipped for this. Each loss leaves every one of them a little more broken.
Now it was Lauren Hunter. In the short timespan Hunter replaced Hetty as Operations Manager, she had butted heads with the team, had been abrasive and icy, but at the end of the day she was still one of theirs. Kensi had watched in horrified helplessness as Marcel Janvier ignited the car bomb, Hunter frantically pounding her head against the locked window, eyes pleading with Callen, the snarl of flames engulfing her. Kensi can't get that last image out of her head.
It was too much, too soon after Renko. Too many losses these past years. Sometimes Kensi believes that if she stops to think, stops to breathe (to feel), she'll lose herself in the fear and anguish and bitterness. So now, she places one foot in front of the other, one day after another, keeps moving forward. Wakes up, puts on her badge, survives another day to do it all over again.
Except lately, she's been cast adrift, scrambling to find solid ground. Since the day she joined NCIS, the principal motivation driving her onwards was finding her father's killer. She assumed that once she had those answers, she could move on with her life, and everything would finally feel normal. She didn't realize how naïve she'd been. Mostly, she hadn't realized how hollow it would be, how fleeting the sense of triumph and vindication fade. In many ways she's left without a center, struggling to redefine herself, to find something to fight for. There are no more answers to be found looking behind her.
There are times, in tiny, reflective moments where she pauses, where she notes dispassionately that for so many years she's been a passive observer to her own life, watching the days flit by, waiting for something to happen. She waited years for Jack, waited years to avenge her father, and when the opportunity finally showed up on her doorstep, the answers she thought she'd been looking for only turned into more questions, more betrayals, more hurt. Kensi tell herself she's done with the waiting, done with the caution. Too much darkness in the world to step hesitantly.
This is the person she's become today: it's those moments of anticipation – trembling on a high-wire – when the bullets are about to fly, when a suspect is just about to bolt, when her body flies into action and synapses are firing too rapidly to process, those are the only moments when she can truly feel. The rest: just blips in white noise.
Tonight, Hunter and Renko are in the morgue, and Kensi enters the empty training room to see Callen pummeling the shit out of a punching bag. It's late evening and the lights are dimmed, and Kensi stands behind in a shadowed corner, taking in the sweat-soaked gray T-shirt, the play of muscles across his chest and forearms, the lines of fury radiating from every strike and recoil. Callen's punches are steady and methodical, but there's a jagged edge to him that Kensi can sense from a mile away, and she steps towards him, directly into his line of vision.
"Care to take it out on the real thing?"
Callen doesn't even blink at her presence, just turns smoothly and regards her pensively. Kensi sheds her tank top, clad only in a sports bra and yoga pants, and readies her stance. Callen's eyes are sizing her up, raking over her, and there's a predatory glint in them that sends a flush rippling straight up Kensi's body, the first surge of anticipation coursing through her veins.
"Don't think I'm the best partner to spar with tonight," he growls.
Kensi is already circling him, arms in a defensive position. "Let's go, G. Afraid to lose to a girl?" She darts in for a swift jab at his midsection, and he catches her fist and twists until she's pressed against his chest, the heat and scent of him momentarily invading her senses.
"Kens," he warns, but she's already broken his hold and spins away, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. Callen lets out a soft grunt, then blocks her next hit with ease. He steps back and then counterattacks with a series uppercuts and crosses, and Kensi ducks and sidesteps with practiced confidence, muscles loosening, blood singing. She and Callen fall into an effortless, comfortable rhythm, weaving a subtle dance born of familiarity and intuition. It's the same dance they do out in the field, out together on an op, Kensi realizes. It's the same dance they've been doing for years.
Kensi dodges a left hook and retaliates with a high roundhouse kick; Callen turns his body and uses her momentum against her, knocking her to the ground. In one smooth motion Kensi gets up and thrusts her shoulder against him, shoving him back a few paces. And just like that the cadence of their dance changes, as Callen charges back with a renewed attack, mounting a rapid offensive with sure, lethal combos, and Kensi loses herself in the instinctive movements of her body, blood roaring in her ears, riding the edge of his rage and frustration.
Callen drives her back until Kensi belatedly realizes she's hit a wall, and as she attempts to spin around and duck under him, Callen pins her, one arm heavy across her windpipe. She can feel the weight of his body pressed against her, hard and unyielding, their rapid breaths mingling across the few inches that separate them. He's looking at her, eyes a vivid, disconcerting blue in the dimness, and the turmoil of emotion she reads there leaves her feeling stripped bare and completely raw. His anger is palpable, leaching from his skin into hers, spiking her senses hot. Kensi waits for him to make the first move, waits for him to release her, watches his muscles coil and tense, but instead Callen roughly closes the distance between them, sealing his mouth to hers.
His mouth is demanding, unforgiving, seeking access that Kensi gives all too willingly. She wants to be angry at him, wants to push him away, but her body goes soft and pliant in betrayal, and she sighs into the kiss, curling her fingers into his shirt. Callen drops his arm and grips her waist, tugging her closer, aligning her hips securely against his. His hands skirt up her sides, fingers grazing the bare skin of her stomach, and Kensi shudders as he scrapes his mouth down the smooth column of her neck, biting at her pulse, kissing a bruise into her collarbone. Kensi snakes herself more tightly around him, carding her fingers through his hair.
She finally tugs him away, meeting his eyes, trying to find her breath.
"Take me home, G."
On the drive to her house he is silent, and Kensi sits besides him, wondering what he's thinking, wondering what thoughts are swirling beneath the layers of G Callen's impassive exterior. She watches the passing city lights flicker over his profile, wondering if they would be able to do this dance as well the second time around. Wanting to do it, over and over again.
Tonight, she is brazen and reckless, expectation and yearning slicking through her; ready to stop waiting. Ready to shed her masks.
When he pulls up outside her apartment she senses a brief hesitation, a glimmer of reluctance, but she takes his hand decisively in hers and leads him to her door. He allows himself to follow and as she squeezes his hand, Kensi knows the instant something in him shifts, the moment he makes his choice. In the end, it is a simple, unspoken decision made and accepted by the both of them: to move forward, to stop hiding.
Callen crowds her at the door as she fumbles for her keys, hands reaching out to bracket her hips, to claim her as his, and once inside she laughs breathlessly into his kiss.
"What?" He pulls back to look at her, eyes crinkling slightly.
"If I had known kicking your ass was all it would take to get you here again," Kensi teases.
He returns her smile, and the expression lightens up his face, lifting away the heavy weight of emotion. "Somehow I don't think you've won this round yet."
"Oh really?" Kensi raises an eyebrow in challenge just as he tugs her shirt over her head, backing her gently into the bedroom. Kensi pulls his own shirt off and her fingers tug impatiently at the waistband of his pants, and she hisses as they shed the last piece of clothing and he presses against her at last, skin to skin. They spill onto her bed, a jumble of intertwined limbs and racing hearts, and Callen uses teeth and tongue to set her every nerve ending afire. Kensi moans, arches under him, pushing herself closer, needing to feel him over, around, inside her. When he finally slides into her, she can barely move, barely breathe, because it's so effortless, so natural, (perfect) and she chokes out his name as they tumble over the edge, together.
Hours later, she wakes up in the pre-dawn murkiness and turns her head, half-expecting to see an empty space. But Callen is lying quietly beside her, awake and gazing into the darkness of her bedroom, lost in thought. He senses her movement and focuses on her, his eyes once again a too-bright cobalt in the deep shadows of her room.
Kensi reaches out a hand to trace along his jawline, his early morning stubble rough underneath her fingertips. "It's not your fault, G," she murmurs. "Renko and Hunter. You did everything you could."
He doesn't say anything, but lifts an arm and drapes it solidly across her thighs. Callen will carry the guilt and responsibility with him, despite what anyone tells him, but his acknowledgement of her words is as close to an absolution as he will allow himself. Kensi squeezes his hand and her eyelids flutter closed. She's on the cusp of drifting back off to sleep when Callen says unexpectedly, "You and Deeks."
Kensi waits for him to elaborate, waits for him to ask the question, hanging heavy and viscous, between them, but he remains silent. She twists up to lean over him.
"Deeks is my partner. We have a thing that works between us," she explains simply, then pauses. "You and I – I'm not sure what this is but we've been circling this too long for it not to be real."
She looks at him, at the man she has known for years, the man who has blurred all the lines she has drawn and somehow found a way behind them, unwittingly. Kensi doesn't know exactly why or how this happened, but she knows with a startling clarity that she wants this, whatever this entails, and that knowledge simultaneously terrifies and electrifies her.
She whispers to Callen, "You see me."
Kensi holds his gaze, willing him to understand, to intuit the fundamental shift that's taken place between them. For a long time she had wondered if it might be Deeks, their cheeky banter and pervasive flirtation making it easy to play what-ifs, but in the end it makes sense that it is Callen she turns to, has been him all along. She and Callen work together seamlessly, operate in such fluid tandem in the field and in the office, undercover and during operations, that it makes perfect sense they would fit together here, like this.
Callen tightens his arm across her thighs and angles his body around hers, cocooning her against his side. Kensi knows Callen is not a physical guy, equally likely to skitter away from displays of physical affection as declarations of sentiment, so his gesture is answer enough for her, a rare display of emotion and sincerity. She curls into the hollows around him, enveloping herself in his smell, his touch.
Callen runs a hand quick and soothingly down her back. "Get some sleep, Kens."
She places a hand against his heart, rhythmic and reassuring. "Will you be here?"
"I'm here," he says.
Her breathing steadies, and she lets her eyes drift closed. Tonight, she feels.