When Kensi made the decision to become an NCIS agent, she very quickly understood that relationships were at the top of the long list of sacrifices demanded by her chosen profession. With the hours mandated by the job and the nature of her undercover work, it was almost ludicrous to think that there would be a man out there who would be indulgent of the necessary secrecy and lies that came with dating her. Kensi was okay with that for a long time – after Jack had left, she had been so messed up that dating was the last thing on her mind, and even when she thought she had healed, there was a part of her that swore she would never let anyone in that close again, never give anyone that power to hurt her. The few guys she had dated in the years after had been a game; she would amuse herself by concocting the most absurd cover stories she could come up with and seeing how long they would hold up before the guy in question caught on.
Callen was someone she did not prepare for, did not expect. He crept up on her, slipped behind her meticulously constructed walls like they were nothing, and by the time she even realized it was too late; fighting it was futile. She was in over her head before she knew she was underwater. When they finally collided it was akin to being rocked by an explosion, pitching her off her feet, unsure where she was going to land, the sound and color clearing the cobwebs and doubts from her mind.
Because it is like seeing him, everything, in a whole new light. Callen was a born operator, which meant being inscrutable was second nature to him, the real Callen buried under a stratum of adopted personas and characters. Kensi is partly convinced that there are times Callen doesn't even know who he is himself, the toll so many years pretending to be someone else has taken. But it's that layer of vulnerability running right beneath the toughness and illusion, which she senses so distinctly, that draws her inevitably to him.
She doesn't want to fix him. Rather, she grasps that vulnerability because it's the same fragility she finds in herself, has spent her entire life trying to suppress. They have both been such broken people, have come so far, that there was a clear-eyed recognition for the other, and maybe by coming together they might finally be able to unpeel those layers and emerge stronger. Maybe she's found what she's fighting for, now.
Kensi looks at Callen and it feels like a puzzle piece has slid unobtrusively, undeniably into place. There are no labels and nothing really changes – he was a constant presence in her life, even before, and they're both too professional to let it into the workplace – but now there's a different kind of understanding when they plan an op together, a subtle gleam in his eye when he looks at her, a new sense of intimacy when he brushes past her in the hallways.
As it is, Kensi is not that girl, so completely not that girl, who agonizes and freaks out over not hearing from the guy she's sleeping with; over a hitch in an op, especially one they planned together, down to the last detail.
Callen shooting Marcel Janvier was a setup, and they had all prepped for the fallout. She knows he's a disgraced agent, suspended from duty, but not hearing from him after his night spent in lockup, and not hearing from him in the subsequent days he's lying low, is kind of, sort of, freaking her out. She knows he's playing the role of the disgruntled, discredited agent, cut loose from NCIS, and he can't exactly contact any of them, but Kensi's adrenaline is spiking and her chest is strangely compressed, her heartbeat a loud throb in her ears, every time she glances over at the empty desk next to her.
The evening they discover the Iranians have taken Callen, she spends the entire night at OSP, furiously working herself into a sweat-soaked fervor in the training room, then pretending to toy with paperwork afterwards, jumping every time Hetty's phone rings and trying to appear nonchalant as she eavesdrops. Nevertheless, Hetty gives her an unnerving, discerning look on her way out.
"Staying late, Ms. Blye?"
"Yes, um, I have a report to finish up." Kensi fidgets with the stack of documents in front of her, shuffling and reshuffling.
"I see." Hetty stands in front of her for what seems like ages, and Kensi can scarcely meet her eyes.
"Keep faith, Ms. Blye," Hetty says at length. "He knows what he's doing."
She smiles faintly at Kensi before she glides out.
Around 3 a.m. Kensi settles into the ratty couch, the same one Callen spent so many nights on before he had a house to return home to, and tries to catch some sleep. She wakes up with a jolt every hour or so, heart hammering, dripping in sweat, and eventually gives up and goes to her desk, scouring news bulletins. Surprisingly, the news of the shooting only appears as a footnote in a select few publications, and any video or photographs have been retracted. Eric has done a good job cleaning up Callen's trail, although there is still a nagging misgiving in the back of Kensi's mind she can't shake, warning about the fallout from this.
When Deeks rolls in a few hours later, following closely behind Sam, he shoots her a puzzled look that quickly changes into one of concern as he takes in her disheveled appearance, the dark bags under her eyes.
"Did you go home at all last night?"
Kensi gives a brusque shake of her head.
"What are you, doing a Callen impression now?" Deek's grin quickly fades at his partner's stony expression. "Okay then, someone clearly hasn't had her coffee this morning."
Sam regards Kensi contemplatively for several seconds, and as he passes her on his way upstairs, he clasps her shoulder briefly.
"We'll bring him home," Sam says in a low voice, and Kensi can only nod blearily in acknowledgement.
Deeks corners her at the shooting range as she's unleashing a firestorm from her Sig Sauer, a savage barrage of bullets tearing viciously into the paper target. He whistles as she cranks the target into view: 12 rounds dead center to the head.
"Remind me never, ever to piss you off again."
She gives him an exasperated look and Deeks grins widely at her.
"So who is it this time? The Chameleon? The Iranians? Our fearless leader, G Callen?" There's a slight hitch in his voice as he says the last word.
"You," she grumbles, ejecting her empty gun clip, popping a new one into place and preparing to discharge yet another round.
"Whoa, that's uncalled for," Deeks admonishes. "You can't say that until I've annoyed you today and trust me, I've barely even begun."
Kensi ignores him and lifts her earmuffs to her head.
"Hey," Deeks interjects, grabbing hold of her elbow. "I didn't even get an eyeroll for that? What's with you? You've been off your game lately, Kensi. It's kinda starting to creep me out. Wanna tell me what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on." She shakes her head vigorously at him. "I just want to get these assholes. Don't you?"
"Of course," he partner concurs. "And we came up with a good plan. They'll get what they deserve. Look, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it, I just–" He falters uncharacteristically. "Just curious, if it were me in there, would you be this worried?"
Kensi looks at him sharply. Deeks delivers his question in a jesting, playful tone, but she still hears the subtle tinge of uncertainty in his voice.
"Deeks –" She says in warning, in caution. "I'm not worried."
He looks at her dubiously, and she huffs in annoyance.
"You're my partner. You know I would."
"Right." Deeks clears his throat, and says nothing further as Kensi turns around and readies to fire.
When they finally receive word about the hostage exchange, the rigid compression in Kensi's chest eases somewhat as she exits the van, fists clenched, every muscle in her body taut and wired, and it doesn't fully loosen until she sees Callen step out of the Iranian car, looking slightly battered and exhausted but nonetheless whole and unfazed. Callen's gaze fixates on her and he heads straight for his team, stopping to exchange words with Janvier as they cross paths. Kensi expects Callen to greet his own partner first, but he steps past Sam and heads directly for her, directly into her arms, and she feels herself trembling with release, of everything that could have gone wrong but didn't, and folds herself into his solidity and warmth. His arms come securely around her and she feels him breathe deeply into her hair.
"You good?" Callen asks gently.
"I'm good," Kensi affirms, reassuring herself of his presence. He was here, now, and everything was all right for the time being. It was all they could ask for in their line of work.
"You?"
"Better, now." Callen smiles at her, then turns to his partner. Sam hands Callen his badge and gun and he accepts the items gratefully, tucking his Sig Sauer into his back holster. Kensi's throat tightens at how empty he had seemed without them. The one identity Callen always came back to, the one identity he belonged to, was as the leader of this team. Any other definitions that now existed between the two of them – they would have time to figure those out.
That night he brings her to his house for the first time, and as Kensi steps through the doorway she has the distinct impression that she is crossing into an inner sanctum, a place few eyes have seen. The very fact that he's brought her here speaks volumes.
Callen's house is starkly sparse and unadorned, bereft of any décor except a handful of unassuming pieces of furniture. She spies his worn bedroll in a corner, a jacket tossed carelessly on the back of a plain couch.
"You barely have any furniture," Kensi observes, surveying his dining room. "You don't even have a dining table."
Callen shrugs, watching her work her way around his home, familiarizing herself with the space. "I eat at the kitchen counter."
"TV? Coffee table? Shelves?"
"Don't watch TV, don't need them." He walks over to her and snags a finger through her belt loop, tugging her close. "I'll tell you what I do have, though."
Kensi looks back at him and smiles. "Oh yeah? What's that?"
"A bed." He wiggles his eyebrows at her, and Kensi laughs.
"You actually got a bed?"
"Couldn't sleep on a bedroll forever."
She winks at him. "Alright, give me the grand tour."
"I can probably do better than that." Callen grins wolfishly at her, and Kensi lets herself be led into his bedroom, noting with surprise that he does in actuality have a real bed, a big bed. She has just enough time to wonder in passing how often he actually sleeps in that bed before she's distracted by the feel of his lips on the back of her neck, the slide of his hands underneath her shirt. She stops thinking very quickly after that.
In the early hours before sunrise, Kensi jerks awake from force of habit and isn't surprised to see Callen silhouetted against the window, gazing outwards at the darkened, empty street.
"G?" She mumbles sleepily.
He turns and climbs under the covers beside her, reaching out to run a hand through her hair.
"When was the last time you slept through the night?" Kensi asks, her body slowly stirring back to consciousness.
Callen shakes his head. "I can't really remember."
"What do you do when you're up?" She asks, genuinely curious.
He gives her a lopsided smile. "Sometimes I practice Russian. I clean my gun. I go for a run." He hesitates for a beat, then muses, "It's strange, sleeping next to someone."
Kensi rolls onto her side to face him, studying his features in the pale gray light stealing through the window, slowly lightening the room.
"I was worried."
"I know." Callen looks into her eyes. "I'm sorry."
She stretches out her hand and rests it against his bare chest, feeling the cadenced pulse of his heartbeat underneath her fingers.
"Do you ever want more than this?" The question leaves her lips, unbidden, and almost immediately Callen's eyes take on a guarded look.
"What do you mean?"
Kensi remembers the words Hetty had once told her, so many months ago, which still reverberate within her. About one day wanting to hang up her gun, wanting to come home to something more than a collection of weapons. Sometimes you find them, or sometimes they find you. You just have to keep your eyes open, Hetty had said.
She hadn't fully understood at the time, and she doesn't fully now, but she thinks she's beginning to. She's not ready to hang up anything yet – there's still so much she wants to do and accomplish – but something about the past few days, all the uncertainty and apprehension, has started her thinking, contemplating the what-if's and maybe's. She's teetering on the edge of something precarious, but when she considers the man beside her, she thinks she just might be willing to take the leap. One day.
Sometimes you find each other.
"Is this all there is for you? Do you ever think about what you want…after all this?" Kensi suspects she might be toeing a line, because whatever is between them is still fragile, undefined and wild, but her relationship with Callen has never been conventional, and she's not about to back down now.
Callen is silent for a tortuously long minute before he speaks. "Kens, I get that you were concerned. We have to put up with a lot of shitty situations, but you know the op comes first. You know whatever this is between us can't get in the way of that. You know what this is, what we are."
There's a veiled meaning in his tone that rubs her the wrong way, and Kensi sits up, irritation flaring. "I know just as well as you do what this job requires and demands – you don't need to remind me of that. That's not what I mean. So why don't you tell me then, G? What are we? What is this?"
Her words linger in the air between them, stagnant and weighted. She's pushing his buttons, challenging him, wanting him to say what he really means, hoping to hear what she needs to hear and hating herself for that hope.
"If that's what you really want, Kens, those things – the kids, the family, the shiny future – then I think you need to think long and hard about this," he says eventually. "If that's what you decide you want, I think you deserve every one of those things, I want you to have those things – but I don't think I'm the guy to give them to you. You know why I can't."
She does. And just like that, she can sense the defenses come slamming down, Callen taking refuge beneath his arsenal of guises and façades.
"Don't you dare throw this away, G. Not after everything we've been through," Kensi bites out, furious.
"I'm not. But I'm not sure either of us knows what we're doing." Callen swings out of bed, pulling on a T-shirt. "I'm going to go for a run, Kens. I need some air."
She watches him leave the room, a part of her wanting nothing more than to run after him, punch him for being such an idiot, yell at him. Instead she forces herself to stay calm, taking deep breaths, trying to ease the clenching in her gut, the knife twisting her insides.
They don't speak of it at work, don't make mention of the conversation at all over the next couple of days, skirting around each other with hooded eyes. But on Friday morning when she sits down at her desk there is a box of fresh donuts waiting for her, and she glances over to Callen standing by the coffee pot, who raises his mug slightly to her.
She reads an apology in his blue eyes; she reads, I'm trying. And Kensi realizes in many ways he's stumbling in the dark and just as scared as she is, and she thinks she might be okay with being scared together.