The silence completely surrounds them. Kensi refuses to reinitiate eye contact. Deeks stares at her with his big blue eyes. Kensi stares at her plate, but doesn't offer to reach for her fork. Her body language tells him she is in retreat mode. Her head is bowed as if she is praying, but he isn't entirely certain. He exhales, and tries to piece together the information that he knows. He suddenly realizes that there is still a school picture in his hand. He casts his eyes downward. He finds a school picture in his palm. A teenaged boy stares up at him with sapphire blue eyes. He grins at the photographer revealing a toothy white smile. His wavy hair is dark brown, it is neatly trimmed. He studies his facial features, and tries to discern what Kensi is telling him.
"What are you telling me? Why wouldn't you want to talk to this kid, he doesn't look scary. He looks like any other seventeen year old boy."
"Not to me."
He looks at the picture again, and then he turns to Kensi, whose eyes stare up at him. He sees a look of guilt, and fear as she looks at him.
"Kens? What is the real reason that you didn't want to talk to him?"
She exhales, "I didn't want to compromise our investigation."
"How would you do that?"
"Eventually the case is going to go to trial, and my name is not the one that can be on an interview with that eye witness. Defense attorneys are ruthless."
"You think that the fact that you dated his father however many years ago would be brought up?"
"Not directly."
"Why would they find any fault with you interviewing this kid? Do you know him? I mean who is he?"
The tears begin to form in her eyes, as the room falls silent. She listens to the clock on the wall tick, as Deeks attempts to control his breathing. He formulates his next question very carefully. He doesn't want her to feel as if he is interrogating her, and just shut down. He fears that it is too late, and she has already activated her impenetrable armor.
"Kensi how long ago did you meet Michael Grant?" He probes.
"About eighteen years ago," she feels her palms beginning to sweat. She doesn't try to hide her physiological reaction. She knows that there is only one way for this conversation to end. She has harbored the painful truth deep inside of her for far too long.
"What happened to his son's mother?"
She swallows hard, "She left him."
"Michael said that he was deployed when his son was born."
"He was," she confirms.
"Were you there?"
She doesn't answer, she only meets his gaze. He places the picture on the counter, in front of her. He pushes the plate aside. He points to the image in front of her.
"Kensi," he says softly, "Who is this?"
"My son," she whispers as the tears break free from her eyes. The tears fall down her cheeks, and onto her chin, landing on her shirt. She doesn't make any attempt to stop them. He looks at her as the walls fall down around her. She turns her body away from the counter. She slides off the stool onto the floor. She attempts to leave, but she finds him standing in front of her. She can't will herself to make eye contact. She is afraid to look up, and read his facial expression, so she stares at the kitchen tile instead. She waits for further questions, or yelling. His arms reach out, and pull her in. He holds her close to his chest, and she tucks her chin against his shoulder. Her arms move from her sides, and hold onto him, as if she is holding on for dear life. He softly kisses her forehead. Eventually he lets go, and she takes a step back.
"I should go," she tells him with a tear stained face.
"Go? Where would you go? This is your home," he wipes the tears from her face with the tail of his t-shirt.
"I am so sorry."
"Are you okay?"
She shakes her head, "No."
He leads her out of the kitchen into the living room. She takes a seat on the couch, next to him. She stares at him willing him to say something.
"I am sure that you need some time to process this. I think I am just going to go for a drive."
"You don't have to run, Kensi."
"I…"
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I have never told anyone," she admits, "Most days I try to pretend that it never happened. I try to block it out. If I don't I find myself consumed with guilt, and shame. I mean what kind of person could just walk away? What kind of monster would do that?"
"This kid is a teenager, so that makes you, how old?"
"Not old enough," she answers.
"Sixteen?"
"Yes," she confirms.
"I can imagine that you were young, alone, and scared."