My dramatic exit is slightly hampered by the fact that I'm on crutches, but I do my best to stalk out with as much dignity as possible. Until it comes to the stairs. That's when all my plans fall apart. Have you ever tried to go up or down stairs while on crutches? If the answer to that question is 'no', then the following should be sufficient reason for you to make sure you exercise enough caution to make sure you're never sufficiently impaired to be limping along and supporting our full body weihgt on two sticks that jab into your arm pits and give you callouses on the palms of your hands. And if it is 'yes', then it is going to bring back some memories of just how difficult and downright tedious life is when you've got one leg out of action. Basically, stairs are nature's way of reminding you that we are given two legs for a good reason. The minute one leg is out of action, stairs present a unique challenge and make you look like a complete idiot with the speed and dexterity of a snail on methedrine. It goes like this: you take the weight on your good leg, then move both crutches down one step, bend the good leg and gingerly lower your bad leg onto the step, at the same time as transferring all your body weight onto the crutches and then bringing your good leg down. Got that? And then you repeat the whole performance over and over again. It's tedious in the extreme, and if you've not got an audience, then you're much better to just sit down, stick your bad leg out in front of you and slide downstairs on your butt. Needless to say, I do not do that on this occasion, with the result that by the time I finally reached the main floor of the Mission I have a rapt audience watching my every move, like I'm giving a masterclass in crutch technique or something. If all else fails, I could have a great career on YouTube, I guess.
"Where's Kensi?" Nell asks. She's got a lot better since she joined us, but there are still moments when she's the soul of tactlessness.
"In Ops. I guess."
Sam lets out a sigh. "I did my best." He looks deeply apologetic, like he's failed me or something.
"I know. But this is Kensi, right?" I spot my messenger-bag sitting by my desk, where I'd dumped it the day I was shot and sling it over my shoulders. "Anyone up to give me a ride home?" I just want to get out of here: the looks of sympathy and understanding are more than I can cope with at the moment.
"What about Kensi?"
"What about her, Callen?" As far as I'm concerned, she's made her position pretty clear. How much more punishment am I supposed to take?
He tries to keep a neutral expression on his face, and then gives up the struggle. "She's still sulking?"
"That's not entirely fair, Mr Callen." I sometimes wonder if Hetty has ever considered running for Secretary General of the United Nations: she'd be bloody good at it.
"What would you call it, Hetty?" he challenges.
Hetty straightens her spine. "I would say that Ms Blye is attempting to come to terms with recent events."
Well, she going to have to stand in line, because I've already staked my claim. "Snap. With bells on." I try not to sound bitter, but I'm pretty sure I'm not convincing anybody.
Colour me stupid, I was kind of hoping that having some time-out and beating the hell out of the punch-bag in the gym might have calmed Kensi down, but clearly I couldn't have been more wrong. I still wasn't sure if she was a) mad at me for getting shot, b) mad at herself for not getting shot, c) mad at herself for saying all that stuff or d) mad at me for not dying. Or even all of the above. Since when did my life become a multiple choice exercise? Anyway, I've had enough and I just want to get out of here, because I'm fed up with people staring at me like I'm something to be pitied. "So who's going to give me that ride?"
"I will. If you think you can manage to get into the Aston Martin?" Callen says generously. That car is amazing. It beats mine hollow. I try not to be bitter about the fact that he's got the Aston and Sam has the Dodge Challenger and I've got a crappy Chevy Malibu. How does that work? In the right light, I can look kind of like a rock star, can't I? I'd look good in an Aston. Or Bentley. Or just about anything except my Chevy. Or am I totally deluding myself?
"I'll manage." That was kind of like a metaphor for my whole life and I'm getting fed up with just managing to get by. I want something more. I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe it's time for a change? There's still the law to fall back on. I worked damned hard to get that degree and it would be a shame to waste it. Plus after a couple of years I'd be earning ten times what I do here. I brood over this as we go out to the parking lot and have just about convinced myself to call it a day as far as law enforcement is concerned.
"Don't let it get to you," Callen says, as he pulls away slowly, after having first of all pulled the passenger seat as far back as possible to accommodate my bad leg.
"It's kind of hard. So I'm thinking about just getting away from it altogether," I confess.
"As in taking a vacation?"
"Not exactly. More like a permanent vacation away from NCIS and LAPD and all the other alphabet soup organisations, if you want the truth."
"Oh." As I watch, his fingers tighten convulsively around the steering wheel. "Don't rush into anything, Deeks. We'd miss you."
"Not everyone would."
He sighs, and it sounds as if the noise comes all the way up from his boots. "That's not true. You know that and I know that."
"Isn't it a pity Kensi doesn't? Come on, you were there. You know what happened. And now she's acting like… I don't know what she's acting like. But I've had it. I've given up trying to understand her."
"That's not true," he says comfortably, like he knows everything. He knows nothing. "She just needs a bit of time."
"You're not listening, Callen. This isn't just about Kensi – it's about me too. I've given her time. I've given her as much time as I can and now I've got to accept things the way they are and start to move on with my life."
He looks across at me. "You're really serious, aren't you?"
"Deadly serious. There's nothing like a near-death experience to put everything into perspective. Life's short, Callen. I don't wake up one day and find I'm sixty and Kensi's still trying to make up her mind and life has just passed me by. What more is it going to take? And how come she's more willing to make a commitment to me when she's thinks I'm going to die than when I'm alive? That doesn't make sense."
"Don't look at me for advice when it comes to women. And don't give up."
"It's not giving up. It's finally acknowledging what I should have realised a long time ago." I can feel my teeth clenching together, so hard that it feels they might shatter. "I'll be fine, Callen. It's not the end of the world after all." It just feels like it is.
"You and Kensi… we were all so sure."
Tell me about it. They think I don't know they all referred to us as 'Densi'? Do they think I'm completely blind and deaf or something? And if they were sure, how do they think I felt?
"There isn't a 'Deeks and Kensi'. There never was and now I see there never will be."
"Never say never, Deeks. I learnt that a long time ago."
I have just enough self-control not so say 'and look where you are'. Callen and I – we're not that different: both of us afraid to commit, and yet longing to try to create the one thing that was singularly missing in our childhoods - namely a meaningful relationship. He drops me off at my apartment block and offers to come up, but I just want to be alone. I've had enough with talking. For once in my life I feel like I'm all talked out.
We'll fast forward through the next bit, because you already know how slow and tedious negotiating stairs on crutches is. I will say one thing: my pecs, biceps and triceps have never had such an intense workout and they're starting to look pretty impressive. Not quite up to the level of Arnie in his prime, but then he got to the stage that he was so muscle-bound he always looked peculiar in anything more than a posing pouch and although we've got a relaxed dress code at work, that would be taking things a bit too far I think. When I get in, Monty rushes up, with an expectant look on his face. Fair enough, it's been hours since he was last out and I can't blame him, even if I feel like strangling him. Why can't we train dogs to use litter trays like cats? And why do I live on the fourth floor?
"Hey there, boy. Did you miss me?"
Monty gives me a look, as if he's saying 'can we skip all this until I've peed?' and I go to get his lead, because it's obvious he can't hold on much longer. When I get back, Kensi is standing in the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" That's rude, but I thought we'd said all we had to say and I'm in no mood for a return match after she KO'd me back at the Mission.
"Walking your dog. Or do you have a problem with that?"
So this is what we've come to: confrontation and barely disguised hostility. How the hell did that happen? I'd love to tell her that I do have a problem – and that she is the problem, but the truth is I'm just so relieved that I don't have to go all the way downstairs, walk Monty and then climb all the way back up that I'd just about sell my soul right now.
"I've not got a problem. You feel free to help yourself." And then why not come back and trample over me some more? Put on a pair of hob-nailed boots and do a really good job, why don't you?
Monty is sitting down, looking first at Kensi and then at me. He looks more depressed than normal, which is saying something. It's not his fault – he really can't help it. Monty looks miserable even when he's really happy. He's just got that sort of a face.
"You don't have to sound quite so grateful." She clips on the lead and stomps away, Monty slinking along at her side, with his ears back and his tail between his legs. Great. Now both of them are making me feel guilty. Way to go. I wonder who else I can manage to piss off today?
I was kind of hoping to go and have a shower in the hope of washing away some of the gloom that is hanging over me like a cloud, but there's no point in doing that until Kensi comes back. And I definitely don't want her walking in on and catching me at even more of a disadvantage than I already am, so I settle for just collapsing onto the couch, propping my leg up on a cushion and searching for my book, hoping to pass at least some of the day in a constructive manner. It's not in my bag, but instead there is a magazine, folded open at a page emblazoned with the banner headline 'Fifteen Ways to Please Your Partner'.
No, it isn't that sort of magazine. It isn't even my magazine: I've never seen it before in my life. I've no idea where it came from. And even if I did buy that sort of magazine, I certainly wouldn't take it into work with me, where Kensi could find it and then ritually sacrifice me. This article was all about how to make a relationship work and I started to skim through it and then went back and read it more carefully.
Okay, she's not that sort of partner, we don't have that sort of a relationship, but we do have something. And that's better than nothing. I'd probably be a fool to throw whatever we do have away without giving it one last chance. And I don't really want to go back to practicing law. For a start, I'd have to wear a shirt and tie every day. Not to mention shaving regularly. What do I have to lose? The article is written by a woman, which is a good start. She's got the inside track, after all. What do I know about women, far less Kensi? I might just pick up some pointers about where I've been going wrong. So I started reading from the top again.
Talk.
Talking may seem so basic, but believe it or not it is one of the most neglected aspects of a relationship. Sometimes one partner can take the other for granted or maybe they are just too tired at the end of the day to talk, but remember - talking need only be a recap of your day and it could lead to other discussions. Talking is the foundation of every relationship, so always remember to say something.
What? What a load of rubbish. This woman has no idea what she's talking about. Kensi always says I talk too much and this is the top tip in the article? To talk more? Mind you, thinking about it, I remember that most women always want to talk about relationships. Usually when you're trying to watch the football. The thing is that Kensi is like most women. And anyway, we don't have a relationship in the first place. According to Kensi we have a 'thing'. Only she doesn't want to talk about that either.
Okay. Take a deep breath and think about this calmly and logically, Deeks. You can do this. Just some light conversation and then maybe you can move on from there? For all I know, sh'se secretly longing for you to make the first move. Things can't get much worse than they already are, can they? Oh God, I hope not. Maybe all I have to do is give her the right opening?
"Hey, Kensi." I flash her a smile. "Thanks for walking Monty. That was really great of you, 'cos I was shattered and he was desperate to go out."
She almost does a double take at my cheery demeanour. "That's okay."
"He really likes you. And I've just realised that I never thanked you for staying here and taking care of him." I look at her expectantly. Come on, Kensi – give me a break, won't you? Can't you see I'm doing my best here?
"That's okay." Kensi is standing with her back against the wall, her hands in front of herself in a defensive position, like she's waiting for me punch her or something.
Wait a minute. Doesn't she get what I'm trying to do here? I'm not trying to attack her – I just want to try to make sense of things. Of our 'thing'. Maybe I need to stop being quite so subtle. "Watching that tape, it made me realise a whole lot of things. Like how much I've got to be grateful for. Like you taking care of me. I know I could have died back there."
That was the wrong thing to say, because Kensi seems to sort of crumple a bit; she slumps back against the wall with a defeated air. "I know that. Don't you think I know that? And if you died, then it would have been all my fault. Of course I know that, Deeks. I can't stop thinking about it."
What? She's still beating herself up about the fact that I got shot and she didn't? This doesn't make sense. And the look on her face is killing me. "Kensi – don't do this. Please don't do this." I can't stand to see her look like this, to hear her beat herself up over something that wasn't her fault. I can't bear to see how much she's hurting and not be able to comfort her. If this was some romantic novel, then I'd be striding across the room manfully, and crushing her against my broad chest while she wept tears of joy. But I've got a bum leg and I'm stuck on this couch.
"I can't stand knowing that you nearly died because you saved me, alright? I can't stop thinking about how I couldn't do anything to save you." She's so fierce, but she's directing all her anger at herself this time and that's wrong. It's so wrong it's unbelievable.
"But you did save me."
"No, that was Sam. I wasn't strong enough or I wasn't pressing in the right place – whatever. You got shot because of me and then I nearly let you die." She finally looks at me. "Face it – I let you down, Marty."
"No, you didn't let me down. And you never would." I stretch out my hand and pray that she'll take it." You want to know the truth, Kensi? You were the reason I'm still here. Because you were there when it mattered and what you said, well that was the reason I wanted to keep on living. I was just about ready to give up before that. So you're the reason I'm here. And, just for the record, I'd do it all over again. Because I don't want to live in a world without Kensi Blye."
Now, somewhere during that speech Kensi came across the room, and let her fingers touch mine, and I grabbed on to them so tightly, because I knew how close I'd come to losing her and I didn't ever want to let her go again.
Well, the article said it was good to talk, and I've done that. I just wonder if I've said enough – or even if I've said too much, because Kensi's sitting beside me with this sort of stunned expression on her face.
"You don't mean that."
"I do. I definitely do. But what about you, Kensi?" I need to hear it from her, once and for all. And if she tells me there's nothing there, then I'm going to have to take that like a man and move on. After getting disgracefully drunk, falling over and weeping into Monty's fur.
2. Listen.
If talking is not your strong point, then listen to what your lover has to say. Perhaps she needs to communicate with you or get some things off her chest, or just vent about a lousy day. In any case, listening is a very important thing, because it shows that you care about what your loved one is thinking.
So now it's up to her. I've waited a long time to hear what Kensi has to say about us.
So now it's up to Kensi...
'15 Ways to be a Better Partner' courtesy of WIS news 10, South Carolina.