Surrendering: Revisited

AN: One reviewer of the original story pointed out that the end seemed to be put together rather hastily and that Deeks gave in a little too fast. Reading back my own story, I see the truth in this statement. I can do better so, here we go. Thank you too to the reviewer pointing out some constructional mistakes. I tried to fix those too.

Parts of Kensi's train of thoughts is different and so is her conversation with Hetty. Story takes a totally different turn from the moment Deeks walks in to resign from NCIS.

Spoilers: Set mid season 5. Kensi's back from Afghanistan.

Disclaimer: If they were mine, I would never have sent Kensi away. There are other ways to hide a pregnant belly. But the reality is they're not mine. I can only write about them. Which I do…so on with it we go…

Kensi

It's absurd. Absurd and surreal and painful and you know it. Yet, here you are, in your car, parked outside a home, in the dark, with coffee, water and a box of Twinkies. Camera ready on the seat next to you. Where, on a normal stake-out, your partner would be.

This is not a normal stake-out.

For one, it's not sanctioned by Hetty or anyone else for that matter. In fact, nobody knows about it, because if they did, you'd be in big trouble. Or bigger trouble, because you yourself know nothing good can come out of this. It's torture and you're inflicting it on yourself, because you think you deserve nothing less.

Nothing good can come out of stalking your partner.

You sigh, hand close to the key in the ignition, but not any closer to twisting it and starting the engine, to give up and drive away before your heart breaks again. Instead, you grab another piece of candy and unwrap it, hoping the sugar rush will calm the queasiness in your stomach, which has nothing to do with the fact this is your sixth Twinkie since you parked here. Or seventh. Whatever.

No, this particular achy stomach has been with you for two months, three days and…a quick look at your watch…fifteen hours.

That was the moment you told your partner, Marty Deeks, that you didn't want to delve any further into this…thing you have.

You were not in your right mind after you came back from your emotionally draining mission in Afghanistan. First there were the many sleepless nights filled with nightmares, followed by exhaustion as you were adamant not to use the provided sleeping pills, followed by more sleepless nights because you didn't dare close your eyes.

It didn't help, even wide awake, the hallucinations would come, morphing Jack into Deeks and back, losing them both in the end, more often than not by the wrong end of your sniper rifle.

All this time, Deeks was there, in whatever capacity you needed him, or better yet, whatever capacity you allowed him to. Which wasn't much. You couldn't stand the concern in his eyes, the tenderness and patience. Ho w did you deserve any of it, when there were many moments you were prone to go for the jugular and leave no evidence?

So no, even after months of therapy, many talks with Nate, you still didn't dare to pursue a real relationship with the man you love. Whom you know you love. And who you know loves you too. But it's too much. Either you push him away or he'll leave voluntarily as soon as he comes to the inevitable conclusion he's wasting his time with you. That you're too high strung, too high maintenance and you'll never totally surrender, always keeping the best of yourself to yourself, afraid to show the real you. The one he thinks he wants to see.

You know better. Any time people show their true selves, shells fall off eyes, people run for cover and relationships get broken.

Two months, three days and fifteen hours ago, you told him no. Looked into the depth of his blue gaze and rejected him and all he had to offer, all the goodness and warmth and humor and love you know he has for you.

Held your ground as you saw the clouds forming behind those eyes, turning them into a stormy gray. Said nothing when he asked you why, voice hoarse and tears streaming, tears he didn't mind showing and never bothered to wipe away.

Walking away from him, leaving him standing in the middle of the bullpen should have felt like a triumph. It felt like a knife in the gut, or probably worse.

The sickness hasn't left you since.

Hetty refused point blank to get you a new partner. She's not crazy, she knows damn well what's going on between the two of you and either thinks you'll work it out or she's punishing you. Like you need help in that department.

Every day is a struggle. There's nothing left of your easy partnership. There's no flirting (obviously), no banter, no fresh coffee or donuts, no secret stash of candy in his drawer. No more showing up on your doorstep with take-out and Monty in tow. You miss the hairy mutt. And his dog too.

Miss the easy way you had with each other. Finishing each other's sentences, the way he allowed you to curl up against his solid body after a hard day, though never without some sexual innuendo, which you tried to ignore, but which always made you blush.

You always hated the same girl on Top Model, but always disagreed about who was best. You could recite Titanic front to back and at the end of it, you weren't sure if you were crying because of the sadness of Jack Dawson dying or because Deeks was draped over your couch gaping like a fish in a pathetic reenactment attempt.

He's such a goof. Or at least, he was.

He's still reliable. He still has your back. Still looks at you with his fierce blue eyes, not bothering to try and hide either his love or his hurt from you.

Nor does he hide anything of his feelings from Callen and Sam, or Eric and Nell. Or even Hetty. And where you once thought that at least your surrogate big brothers were on your side, it now seems 'team Deeks' is one solid brotherhood.

Oh yes, you're the black sheep now. And you know it too.

It just couldn't get any worse.

Until it did.

Her name's Sophie. You would like to point out that it's a childish name, but that would be a little childish, now wouldn't it? Childish or not, she's the new girl in Deeks' life and he hasn't stopped talking about her since he met her, a little over two weeks ago.

You haven't seen her yet, but according to your partner, she's all he could ever wish for. She's (apparently) smart enough to hold her own in a conversation (though how smart does one have to be to keep up with Deeks? Patience would be a better virtue for that), yet ditzy enough to go along with the many lies he has to tell about his occupation. So she sounds just like any other girl he's ever gone out with.

Problem is though, that Deeks seems to be really taken with Sophie. His eyes light up when he talks about her and for the first time in months he looks happy.

It should take the pressure off of you, ease a bit of the guilt you feel at the pain you caused him. The pain in your tummy should subside a little now that, out of sheer happiness, he sometimes forgets he should be heartbroken and even gets you your favorite donuts again.

The knife twists painfully, now dipped in the venom called jealousy.

God, could you have been any more stupid? Or naïve? Did you really think he would mourn your loss forever, that he would never move on? And what exactly gives you the right to feel insulted and hurt by it? You rejected him, miss Blye. He has every right to find himself someone else to love. A girl like Sophie, who might be a ditz, but who's at least smart enough to know a good man when she sees one and hold onto him too. Which makes her Einstein in comparison to you.

But she hasn't faced the trauma you have, your internal defense attorney points out. He must be pro bono, because he's not doing a very effective job. His was fighting a losing battle to begin with. The prosecution has a much more solid case and presents it well.

How do you know she's never suffered any trauma? Afghanistan set aside (you're in a league of your own there), who are you to assume this girl has never been left by a lover? Or been mistreated by anyone in her life? Lost a parent or a brother or a friend? It's kind of inevitable in human life, though more so in your line of work.

The line of work you chose for yourself. You can always quit and start collecting stamps instead. Because philatelists never encounter anything more dramatic than a paper cut from a ten thousand dollar square of paper, right?

What job is fool proof these days? And what does it have to do with life experience?

You don't even know what she does for a living, so perhaps it's something that takes a lot of empathy, like a nurse. And face it, even if she was doing nothing more nerve wracking than stocking shelves at a local seven-eleven, that still doesn't mean she's void of any emotional development.

Maybe there's more to Sophie than you know. And maybe that means that your one argument for rejecting Deeks is null and void and plain stupid.

All these random and disturbing thoughts have culminated into your being here now, on a Saturday night, waiting outside his house for him to come back from a date with his new girlfriend, hoping you'll catch a glimpse of her.

You're not sure what you want to see, really. If he comes home alone, does that mean the date hasn't gone well? Do you want that for him? And if she's indeed with him, do you really want to witness their kisses, their loving touches, another girl taking the place you have voluntarily given up?

And what if he doesn't come home at all? A real chance…

Perhaps you should go. This is ridiculous. Pathetic. Unprofessional.

You grab your seventh Twinkie. The knife twists painfully. You ignore it and focus your gaze on his front door.

An hour later, Marty Deeks comes hone. Alone. You never see him, having succumbed to sleep ten minutes before.

He however, does see you.

His mouth sets in a thin, angry line.

Deeks

You're tired. Dead tired. A stifling feeling which has settled itself in your very bone marrow. Ever since you got your heart trampled on by the woman you can't help loving, the whole point of moving, breathing, existing is lost on you.

It's not for lack of trying. You are doing your best. You take care of yourself, go surfing whenever the waves are promising, walk and run and play with your good old pal Monty (ignoring the small whines coming from the doggie bed every time the doorbell rings and it's not her) and yes, you flirt with the plethora of hot girls gracing the beach with their presence.

Your heart's not in it, really, but it's a distraction, one you desperately need to prevent yourself from going crazy.

Perhaps you should have asked Hetty to send you back to LAPD, but there's this stubborn streak inside of you that refuses to believe it's all over. It can't be. She'll come 'round. One of these days.

But stubbornness does not protect you from the increasing feeling of loneliness. Much as you adore Monty's loyal brown eyes, they're not enough to make you forget another pair of mismatched, brown orbs, or the warmth they once held for you.

So in order to rouse yourself out of your stupor, you go out and, two weeks ago, you met someone.

Sophie.

A geriatric physical therapist at a local nursing home, she understands more of the human spirit and its capabilities than any other woman you've dated so far and it's a joy to talk to her about how to deal with wavering minds and unwilling bodies. You've told her you're an independent agent working with LAPD. It's close enough to the truth for you not to get tangled in another alias and vague enough not to have to elaborate. Just like her patients' files, much of what you do is labeled 'classified' and she never asks difficult questions.

She's sweet too. Caring and nice. Good sense of humor. Killer body. Bright green eyes. Strawberry blond hair. Smallish, but not too tiny (not that there's anything wrong with tiny women; just in case Hetty can read minds, which you're pretty sure she can), just…a good girl.

A first date turns into a second and now, into a third. You had fun. She's an amazing kisser and appreciates that you don't want to sleep with her immediately. Respects you for it, even, and it's easier to let her think you're being chivalrous.

Instead of afraid of what will happen should this relationship go any further. Afraid of what it will do to whatever is left of you and Kensi.

You don't want to lead Sophie on, knowing full well that all Kensi has to do is wink and you'll drop all pretence in your haste to be by her side. The chances are small, but still…Sophie is too nice to toy with. You sincerely hope you can make yourself fall in love with her.

You know it's not something you can force.

So yeah, you're taking things easy. One step, one kiss at a time. Letting her perfume waft around you and pretending that flowers and cinnamon are somehow better than sunshine and gunpowder.

Tonight went well. Nice dinner, some dancing, she laughed at your jokes without the urge to punch you. A stroll down the beach, hand in hand. You make a cute couple, but still…you're not partners and you can't read her every wish from her lips, not do you feel the need to fulfill them.

It's…nice. But it's not…

It's just not.

And you know the time is coming when you have to come clean with that fact, though you have no idea how to go about it. It's not like you set out to hurt her, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you would.

You also know that she gave you none too subtle hints all night about how she wanted to spend it and you were a fraction away from giving in. you're a healthy mature man after all and abstinence was never your style. In the end, you couldn't cheat on her (you're not quite sure who the 'her' in this tale is), so you backed off after a few heated kisses, coming up with an excuse of having to do some work in the morning.

You hate to lie to her. Hate it more that she believed you.

The drive home is silent, you're not in the mood for any music and the news annoys you. The streetlights beckon you home and you've never been more glad to reach it, as fatigue settles into your bones once more.

A fraction of a second later, it has vanished though.

No…no way. She can't…this isn't.

Oh yeah. She can. This is.

This is Kensi's car, parked across from your house. This is her shape in the driver's seat. This is your partner and once best friend, stalking you.

The bough breaks. Whereas two weeks ago, you would have been more than happy to see her, now all you feel is anger, doused in bitterness and topped off with a sprinkling of annoyance.

Too little, too late.

Perhaps you should rouse her out of her sleep. She's obviously out of it, because if she were awake and alert, she would have come out of the car by now. But instead, you let her. Maybe, when she wakes up in a few hours with a crook in her neck and not having seen anything useful, she might finally get the idea and leave.

And if not, maybe your anger will have subsided enough when you yourself wake up. Because, really, not even pissed off Kensi Blye would be a match for you now.

Kensi

The first persistent rays of early sunlight peek through your window and straight in your face and if that's not irritating enough, it's accompanied by a steady pounding, like someone knocking on the window.

You blearily open your eyes, shielding them with your hand as you turn into the direction of the sound. There really is someone knocking.

And not just anyone.

He's holding a to go cup with what you presume is coffee and a bag which may or may not contain a fresh donut. Just like the old days.

Yet, unlike the old days, one thing is missing.

He's not smiling. In fact, you've never seen him this way. And you thought you know every display of emotion possible on Marty Deeks.

You know his happy look, his concentrated on the task look, his cocky confident look, his scared as hell look, his concern for your wellbeing look. His angry look. His sad and forlorn look.

You can most vividly remember that one, together with his pleading, his despair and his never wavering look of pure love.

Though never wavering…it's wavering now. Scratch that, it's not.

It's gone. And new is the look he's giving you now.

The look of cold rejection.

The knife twists again.

Not daring to let him in, you start the car to roll down the electric window on his side. He hands you his treats, but with the look he gives you, you don't dare eat or drink any of it. It might be poisoned. At the very least it's bitter.

"Fancy seeing you here," he starts, sarcasm lacing his words.

"Yeah, I…I was…"

"On a stake-out? Am I suspected of anything?"

"What…"

He cuts you off with more sarcasm and it's no longer the food you're worried about being venomous.

"Because that's the only legitimate reason I can think of as to why an NCIS Special Agent would be observing my home, without her partner, who, wait…is me."

God, he's angry. And rightfully so. What were you thinking, coming over here? Why can't you just leave well enough alone and accept his right to move on? And do so without telling you?

Still, you have to save face, you have to…

"I…I was…" You try to start again, but he cuts you off. Which might be for the better. You're making enough of a fool of yourself not to need the addition of telling an obvious, whopping lie. And telling it badly too.

"Please, don't humiliate yourself by trying to come up with some half-assed excuse as to why you are here. Or why you've been here all night."

You don't. You've stopped trying. Doesn't mean you're ready to hear the inevitable consequences of your stupid actions.

"Maybe you'd like to know you didn't miss anything by falling asleep. I came home alone. You see, Sophie's not some floozy I amuse myself with until someone better comes along. In fact, come to think of it, she might be the better one coming along after the amusement with my partner wore off.

Ouch.

For a moment, you forget to breathe. Maybe you should have seen this retaliation coming, but you were completely caught off guard and his offhanded remark leaves you gasping for air and brings unwanted and unsuspected tears in your eyes.

Normal, sweet Deeks would now smile at you, to soften the blow of his words and you would punch him and things would go back to the way things were. But there is no normal, sweet Deeks anymore. You killed him, two months, four days ago…

Silence settles for a while, before he leans back from your car.

"Go home, Kensi Blye. Tomorrow, I'll go to Hetty and tell her I want to go back to LAPD permanently. I can't do this anymore. I'm…I'm tired."

"No…no, Marty. Please, no…"

"There's no other way, Kensi. Go home. Just…go home."

He turns his back on you and crosses the street. A minute later, you see him open the door, pushing Monty back inside as the dog tries to see what's going on.

"Get back inside," you hear him say. "There's nobody out there."

Ouch.

That's quite enough. You rev the engine and drive away, only stopping halfway to kneel in some bushes and vomit.

You must have eaten too many Twinkies…

Other than leaving your previous stomach contents on the side of the road, you make it back in one piece. As you make your way to the bathroom, you leave a trail of clothes behind, but since your humble home is already nothing more than a pig sty (according to your almost ex-partner; ouch), you don't care. Much. Or at all.

You stay in the shower for almost an hour, until the water turns tepid and your limbs are numb. You fell marginally better.

There are almost no clean clothes left in your closet, but again, you're not bothered. Digging up your favorite pair of yoga pants from underneath a pile in the corner of your bedroom (one sniff telling you they're not overly ripe), you yank them on, together with a faded blue LAPD shirt.

His, of course.

And the marginally better feeling is gone again, to be replaced by another crying fit, sponsored by any tissue company imaginable. Heck, you might as well buy stocks, they're bound to make a huge profit in the greater Los Angeles area.

As are the liquor stores. And any bakery within a thirty mile radius. Better make that forty.

Should you call him? Your hand hovers over the screen of your phone, where you've only recently replaced his picture (well, him and Monty) with a generic flowery display. The phone drops uselessly from your limp hand; you can't find the courage, nor the words.

Maybe a text? But what to put in it?

"Please, Marty…"

You type it, but don't dare send it. He looked so determined.

As usual, the uselessness, the helplessness makes you antsy. And being antsy makes you angry. And because you're not ready to direct the anger at the source (you), you direct it at him.

Stupid Deeks! How dare he give up like this! Why can't he see you were trying to…whatever it was you were trying to do. Why can't he be patient until you resolve…whatever it is you need to resolve. Basically, why can't he help you understand whatever it is you don't understand yourself.

In the end, he's just like Jack.

Only this time, you chased him away. This time, there's nobody else to blame but yourself.

After all, you could have had him. Heart, body and soul. He wanted you, even made that perfectly clear. It was your fear, not his, that sent him running.

In the end, you're not sure which one of you had more in common with your ex-fiancé, Marty Deeks or you. And now he's leaving NCIS because he can't even stand the thought of being in the same building with you. For the first time, you can't talk him out of something either. Yet, you feel you have to try.

But what if you're too late? What if tomorrow he won't listen to you and sign the papers anyway? What if he goes in early and signs them before you even get there?

There's only one option left. You're going to have to be there first. Get to Hetty before he does. Ask her, beg her, bribe her if you have to not to allow him anywhere near any paperwork until you have one more chance to talk to him.

Determination setting in, you walk to your bedroom and fall in a heap upon your bed. You might as well get some sleep now. Your alarm clock will go off way early in the morning.

It's not even six in the morning when you find yourself in the dimly lit bullpen in the Mission. While the lights on your desks are still all off (thank God he's not here yet), one small light is burning on Hetty's desk, giving more credibility to Deeks' assumption she's part bat, or owl. A nocturnal creature anyway.

Trembling with a funny combination of nerves and determination, you make your way over until you're standing right in front of the formidable leader that is Henrietta Lange.

"You are early, miss Blye."

"Yeah, I needed to…"

"Be here before mister Deeks shows up?"

Why are you surprised, really?

"Yes. He's going to ask you to…"

"Transfer him back to LAPD?"

Why is she uttering every sentence as a question when she damn well knows she's got it right?

"Yes. And you…"

"Need to stop him from doing so?"

Defeated, you nod.

"Pray tell, miss Blye, why do I need to stop him?"

Oh, like the Almighty miss know-it-all doesn't know that. She just wants to see you squirm. Apparently, Hetty is also in 'camp Deeks'. Should have guessed.

"Because…" Oh well, here goes nothing.

"Because I need him. I…I need my partner. In every way imaginable."

"Please forgive me for not wanting to imagine every way, miss Blye. But may I ask you what has brought this change in you about?"

Gee, where to start.

Cheeks burning red with shame, you confess your weekend activities and the horrible way they all went South to your patiently waiting, tea sipping boss, ending with you coming to the conclusion you reached.

"Because…it turns out I am like Jack, not Marty. Not that I'm like Marty, but Marty's not like jack, I mean."

To anyone but you, it sounds like gibberish, yet Hetty nods. Okay, so Hetty speaks fluent gibberish. Again, should have guessed. After all, she understands Deeks' pig Latin without fail too.

"Very well, miss Blye. I'll see if I can do some damage control. But, if he still wants to leave, I won't be stopping him. I won't force him into a partnership that no longer benefits anyone."

"Thanks Hetty."

"Don't thank me yet, miss Blye. I can't perform miracles."

You smile, knowing what she means. The miracle should not be coming from her. It should be all you. But you're ready to fight for it.

Deeks:

After only a few hours of restless sleep, you dragged yourself out of bed, took a quick shower, drank a cup of coffee and made your way to the Mission, not looking forward to what you needed to do, but not wanting to stall it either.

This time, you don't have any eyes for what's going on in the fairly empty parking lot, your thoughts all wrapped around the task you've set out for yourself.

The bullpen is blissfully empty when you come in and after dropping your bag on your desk, you quickly make your way to Hetty's desk, ignoring the sinking pit in your stomach and Kensi's voice in your mind as she begs you not to do this.

It has to be done. It's better for all concerned.

"Hetty, I…" you start. Then clamp your mouth shut.

Looks like she was expecting both you and the reason of your visit. The paperwork's already in front of her and you have to admit, it kind of hurts. As if she can't wait to get rid of you, even when it's on your own request. Frankly, you expected her to put up at least some semblance of a fight. Do you really mean that little to her?

And what about Callen and Sam? They'll miss you, right? They might not want to say it out loud, but they will, right? You were one of them? Or are they going to be mad at you for bailing on Kensi? Can you, no, should you explain to them that she left you no other option?

God, you're so tired.

"Mister Deeks, I know what you want and I won't stop you if you are one hundred percent sure. But I do want one thing in return."

"What's that?"

"Think about it. About all the consequences. Miss Blye is well aware of the mistakes she made this weekend and the days before, but she is still your partner and she is depending on you. Much more so than I believe you realize."

How does she know? Kensi's here? At this ungodly hour? Just to stop you? Or…

Does it still matter?

"What's the point, Hetty?"

"There's always a point, mister Deeks. I for one thinks she's ready."

"For what? Talking? Explaining? Listening?"

"Surrendering, mister Deeks. Surrendering"

Okay, you didn't see that one coming. Hope flares, obvious enough for the dwarflike enormity that is Hetty to pick up on, but nor strong enough to act upon. Not yet.

"Hetty…I…how many days of leave do I still have on the books?"

Without consulting an agenda or making a call, Hetty answers:

"How much time do you think you need?"

"I eh…I don't know. I just need to get away. For a while. Think. Prioritize. Rest."

She's quiet for just a moment, then calls Nell.

"Miss Jones? I'm very sorry to call you in early, but your help is required for a secret operation. Please come in at your earliest convenience."

You give her a curious look, which she answers with a mysterious smile.

"I can't afford to let you go on a paid vacation, mister Deeks. But I can let you go undercover. Black op. Strictly need to know. Alias secured. Only myself and Nell will know your alias, only I will know where you are and how to reach you in case of an emergency. Don't worry about LAPD, I'll smooth things over with them."

Relief sinks in as you understand what this formidable lady is doing for you. You've been so angry with her after Kensi came back from her stint in Afghanistan not even half as bad-ass as she once was, but if this is the way Hetty is trying to make amends, you'll gladly and gratefully accept.

"Thanks Hetty."

"Don't mention it. Literally. Just go talk to your partner before you go. It's the only demand I have."

You sigh, knowing she's right. Kensi will think you've abandoned her forever if you leave without saying anything. Though you really don't know what to say at all.

"I believe she's at the gym, mister Deeks."

You nod and turn around, smiling your first smile in over two months when your boss wishes you 'Godspeed'.

Kensi

For the first time in your life, you fought the punching bag and the damn thing won, taking advantage of your lack of concentration.

This is it. Any moment now, you could lose your partner forever. Any moment now, your self-fulfilling prophesy will be fulfilled.

The thought that at least you tried is not consoling whatsoever as it is overruled by the too-little-too-late mantra gaining momentum in your tired brain.

The minutes crawl by as you toy with the strings on your yoga pants (yes, still the same yoga pants; at least he won't have a problem sniffing you out). Part of you wants to stand and check the batteries of the clock on the wall, the other part wants to take them out altogether. You want it to be over with.

You want to stall the moment forever.

You want to go back in time and lose your car keys before you can come up with the dangerous idea of driving up to his place.

Is he in yet? Is he with Hetty? Can she convince him to rethink his actions? What if she can't?

Will he come down to say goodbye?

A sob escapes your throat. Thanks to the fatigue you feel, you have no defenses left to keep it in and it's quickly followed by many other quiet sobs, until your entire body is shaking with it.

The door of the gym opens, but the unfamiliar agent takes one look at you and turns back. Good.

Minutes tick by. The sobs lessen, the pain in your gut increases.

Where is he? What's keeping him?

The door opens again and your heart stops when you recognize the silhouette of your partner. Or ex-partner? Oh God please.

"Kensi…"

"Is it..did you…?"

"No, not yet."

Oh sweet relief. You almost want to laugh with it.

"Don't thank me, though. Thank Hetty."

"I…I will. But…"

"I'm still leaving, Kensi. Officially, I will go undercover for a while. I…I need to get away from the drama."

"With Sophie?"

You can't help but ask.

"On an undercover op? Really, Kensi? And aside from that, what do you think gives you the right to ask me that?"

He's right of course. It's none of your business. Again, your cheek burns red in humiliation.

"But if you want to know, I broke up with her yesterday. She's too good a lady to get involved in this little game of ours. She deserves some guy's full attention, preferably from someone without a shitload of extra baggage and a partner who can't seem to make up her mind."

"Marty…"

He holds up his hand to indicate he doesn't want you to interrupt and for once, you clamp your mouth shut.

"I know you've been through a lot. And so have I. And perhaps the only thing wrong with us is our timing. I don't know. But I think it's best if we stay away from each other's orbit for a while, before the hurt we inflict on our hearts is irreparable."

It's kind of too late for that, you secretly think. The mere thought of not seeing him for weeks on end without knowing where he is or what he's doing (and with whom) is excruciating. Sure, he's been on vacation before, but he has always sent you funny pictures or texts while he was away so you never had to miss him too much.

He won't this time.

Everything is changed this time. He's not just leaving on a vacation. He's leaving to get away from you. Deliberately. Because of you.

You have to say something. Have to beg him for something. Some crumb. Some ray of light. A glimmer of hope that this whole mess will sort itself out. That he still believes in your partnership.

"Marty…will you be back?"

He nods, giving a wan smile.

"Eventually."

"And we…"

He hears the silent question that doesn't make it past your trembling lips. Are we ever going to be okay? He doesn't answer, merely shakes his head. Not in an angry, definite way, more like a sad, tired way.

"I don't know, Kensi. Not now. Maybe when I return."

"We'll talk then?"

"Yeah. We'll talk."

"Okay…take care, Marty…partner…"

"Take care, Kensi."

He leaves without looking back. As the door to the gym closes behind him, you crumple to the floor, thinking you'll never want to get up again until he comes back. Even if it takes months.

Three weeks later…

Marty

"Hey Derek! That was some spectacular moves you made, dude!"

You grin at the compliments Flynn makes you, or rather, your alias, Derek Morgan. Flynn is one of the regulars on the beach here at Santa Cruz, where you've rented a little summer house. So far, it's been nothing but sun, waves, you and Monty. You've been invited to some parties on the beach and you've visited some of the local bars for a drink a few nights. You even bought a cute little blonde a cocktail and allowed her to write her phone number on your arm with her lipstick.

The ocean washed it off before you could even think seriously about calling her. It's for the best. You're not in the mood for a one night stand with a nameless girl. It won't calm the storm in your head. You need silence for that.

And silence is what you got.

True to her word, Hetty hasn't called you and neither has anyone else.

Not even Kensi.

Which is exactly how you want it, isn't it? It's the whole point of coming out here in the first place. A time to relax and calm down and it's just what you needed. No contact with the outside world whatsoever. No need to look around you for any bad guy following you around, trying to take you out. No need to carry your gun everywhere.

But you still carry your Beretta tucked in your jeans whenever you're not surfing, feeling naked without it. And you still automatically scan the perimeter when walk into a club, bar or restaurant, looking for bad guys and the easiest exit, just in case.

It's second nature.

As is thinking of her.

With the exception of riding the waves, all your waking moments are consumed by thoughts of her. Wondering what she's doing, thinking of the good old days. Sometimes the memories are funny, some are bitter and cold.

And sometimes you just wish she was here with you, when you see something you wish you could share with her. You've taken lots of pictures and even almost sent one of them to her.

Almost.

Sometimes, mostly at sunset, when loving couples stroll together in the idyllic setting, your heart cramps painfully. Why can't you have this with her? Why can't you have this with anyone other than her? Did you break up with Sophie too soon?

Should you try and talk to Kensi again?

What's the point though?

You're partners. That's it. All of it. She made that perfectly clear after that one night of magic turned into a glooming and dooming dawn. Ray can wait forever for his update on Wikipedia. Not gonna happen. And you're so tired of trying. Trying not to be so hopelessly, damnably, irrevocably in love with her.

And not getting anything back.

You haven't cried since you were eleven years old, moments after the police came and took you away from the home that was never a home to begin with, far away from the father who didn't deserve that title either, the parent you just shot because it was all you could do.

Instead, you created a persona. The wise guy. The laid-back surfer dude. It worked then and for a long time, it kept working, long time after you became an undercover cop. Rarely did you let your true emotions show, always believing that the mere results of bringing in the bad guys were evidence enough of the good guy buried underneath the masks you wore. Masks like Max Gentry.

Didn't mean the emotions weren't there. Didn't mean you couldn't love, didn't love. Didn't love her. Apparently, it was not enough. She didn't appreciate the cracks in you, or herself. And you didn't have the recipe of the superglue that would put you back together and brush over any visible imperfections.

Didn't she know that there was no masterpiece in the world that didn't have any cracks? And that they were still worth millions to anyone who knew true value when they saw it?

She simply won't let you prove you're a connoisseur of true pieces of art like Kensi Blye.

Damn! Why was this so hard? How much longer would you have to stay in hiding before you'll stumble across the answer. The holy grail of answers. The answer to the riddle of her soul.

Sighing, you take your board, greet Flynn and the other guys and head back to your cabin. The waves have lost their appeal.

Kensi

"Damn it, Kensi, get the hell out of there, right now!"

Callen's angry voice rings harshly in your earpiece, but you ignore him as you sprint across the parking lot, dodging bullets and running for your life, taking out two bad guys in your mad dash.

Once the situation is cleared and the still living bad guys are taken to the boathouse for questioning, your team leader stalks up to you, blue eyes blazing hell.

"What the hell, Blye? Are you mad?"

Unable to look at him, you busy yourself checking your gear. But Callen won't be ignored that easily.

"An answer please, Agent Blye."

"What's your problem, G.? I took out two more bad guys than you and Sam combined."

"And almost lost us another agent in the process. We're already one man down and here you go all kamikaze on us. We can't afford to be worried about you too, Kensi. You can't become a liability."

"And I'm not, am I? I do my job as well as you and Sam do."

At the mentioning of his name, Sam Hanna walks over, his limp only visible to the trained eyes of his coworkers, but his anger palpable to all within a ten mile radius. Anger that is solely directed at you. As it has been for the last three weeks.

The guys have taken the sudden absence of Deeks harder than you thought, especially Sam, whose personal relationship with the liaison has become much steadier since he witnessed the younger man taking a beating beyond description and still stand his ground, saving the life of his wife because of it. From his worst adversary, Sam is now his suddenly Deeks' strongest defender and he hates the fact that this brave young man has been worn down up to a point where his only option was to leave. And of course, Sam knows exactly who to blame.

"G., can you give us a moment?" Sam's words are hardly a request and Callen backs off.

Bad-ass as you might be, there's nothing remotely funny about standing here alone with an outraged ex Navy Seal, no matter how many times you've successfully beaten his ass. That was in a controlled environment and with nothing but a bruised ego at stake. This, this is a wholly different setting.

So it surprises you when, after one or two calming breaths, you feel his hand, warm and heavy, on your shoulder. His brown eyes are wide and warm with genuine concern.

"What's up with you Kensi? I know you miss him, I know you're worried about him, about your partnership, but Callen's got a point, girl. You're taking more and more risks every day, don't follow orders, put all of us in danger while we try to save your butt. It's almost like…"

He doesn't finish his train of thought, but has gone pale underneath his tan as the implications of what he was about to say hit the both of you.

It's almost like you no longer care about what happens to you. Like you're just waiting for someone, anyone, to take you out. A heroic death for one. Suicide by proxy to you.

Part of it is true and you know it. You don't really have a death wish. If you had, you could have taken care of that yourself in the most creative way. But you don't really have a life wish either, if that even makes any sense. You well and truly don't care either way.

It's only your body waiting to die. Your heart is burning in Hell already. Dear God, when did you become such a drama queen?

You're suddenly exhausted. Callen's outrage added fuel to your fire, giving you the energy to kick back and the perfect excuse to blindly keep going. But Sam's understanding, his brotherly support douses the fire raging inside your belly and for the first time in three weeks do you really feel the aftermath of your pain-driven path of self destruction.

With the fatigue come the tears. Knowing you'll kill him slowly in his sleep if he hugs you now (Kensi Blye doesn't handle weakness well and her own should never even be acknowledged) , Sam keeps his distance, but the hand on your shoulder remains where it is.

"I miss him."

"I know you do. But he'll be back."

"He won't. I pushed him away too hard this time. He hates me."

"What, Deeks? You're mental, Kensi. The man worships you."

"I don't think so. And I don't deserve it either."

"Stop being a martyr here for a minute, Special Agent Blye. It doesn't suit you. We've all made our fair share of mistakes when it comes to misjudging Marty Deeks. But he's forgiven us every single time, whether deserved or not. And maybe what transpired between the two of you weighs more heavily than whatever the rest of us did, but that's because he cares more about you. And he knows you care about him too. Which you do, right?"

"Yes, of course. I love him."

It comes out so easily now that you've let your guard down. Why can't you do the same when it's him you're facing? Why can you confess your love for him to anyone but the man himself? Hasn't he proven long time ago it's all he wants?

Not to mention what you'll get in return?

"How do I fix this, Sam?"

"With time. With help. And without getting yourself killed, you hear me?"

It brings a watery smile on your face and this time, you hug him to you. Letting go of him, you walk the walk of shame to where Callen stands, cleaning his weapon and expertly looking like he hasn't been listening in on your awkward moment with his partner. When he looks up at you, you meet his gaze heads on and apologize for your reckless behavior. A small smile breaks on his lips, showing you that he, though still angry with you for almost ruining (another) op, is as worried as his partner was. You're one of them, these guys are the closest thing to a family you have, other than your mother.

And Deeks. Hopefully.

The ride back to the mission is quiet, but not loaded. Starting up his computer, Callen calls you over one more time.

"Kensi?"

"Yes?"

"In my report…I'm gonna have to stick to the truth, you know that right?"

"Of course. I wouldn't expect it any other way. And I'll carry the brunt, if that's what you mean. In fact, I think I need to have a long overdue conversation with Hetty."

"Good luck with that, Kensi. I mean it."

"I know you do. Thanks, G."

He nods in understanding as you walk up to your formidable lady boss.

It's time to get your partner back.

Deeks:

Eventually, the expected call comes. Though when it does, its message is a little more disturbing than you thought.

But there was no questioning its authenticity or urgency, so three and a half weeks after you unsuccessfully tried to find some peace of mind, you find yourself on your way back to LA, back to the Mission.

And back to your partner.

It was the one thing that became glaringly obvious to you in the relative silence of your beach cottage. There was no way you could sign those damn papers and leave NCIS behind like the years you spent there were nothing more than another phase, another line added to your resume.

No matter how much she hurt you with her pushing and pulling you in every imaginable direction, you can't leave your partner.

As your anger abated slowly, it was replaced with a feeling of resigned fatigue. There was no lying to yourself, really: even if all she would ever do was push and pull, you would still prefer it to not being around her at all. She is your addiction, the one you can't get a hold of no matter how much you sometimes wish you could.

So all in all, you knew, even before you got here, how this would turn out. And for some reason you always thought Kensi knew it too. And therein lies your biggest mistake. You see that now.

Putting all the blame squarely on Fern's shoulders is unfair. For all the pushing and pulling she did, you pushed and pulled just as hard. And ran when she pushed harder than expected. Nursing a bruised ego, you committed the ultimate no-no in Kensi's book and fled the scene of the crime.

Without giving her much (if any) hope of your return. Sure, you said you'd talk when you came back, but your conversation was wrought with so much uncertainty that you never put too much credibility into that particular promise. Not when all you wanted to do was to (selfishly?) get as far away from her as possible to lick your wounds in private, never once thinking of the wounds you inflicted on her with that very same action.

What seemed like a justified idea twenty-three days ago now feels terribly cruel. Because if you knew her half as well as you always claim you do, you should have realized that Kensi does not ever believe in happy endings while staring at the empty spot where once upon a time a man she loved stood.

Unlike for you, the outcome was blurred and scary and possibly lethal to her, though you never would have believed she would get herself or the others in danger by just not caring enough.

Guess she really believed she had lost you forever. And you selfishly let her believe that. And because of that, you got the phone call that triggered you into action.

Not from Hetty, as you expected. But from Sam, whose warm voice was void of any accusations either directed at you or her, but filled with fraternal concern for both your wellbeing. You'll be eternally grateful to him for giving you the very last push you needed to go home and fix this, once and for all.

It's time to get back to your partner.

Kensi

Later that evening (better make that early the next morning), you're still at the Mission, too tired to work, but too wired to sleep. It's an eerie twilight zone and maybe shooting a gun might not be the safest thing to do in this state, but as always, it calms you down. Though you're going to have to do some major explaining to Hetty, when she has to fill in another request to replace the discarded clips of bullets that have not been shot in the general direction of a bad guy, cardboard cut outs not counting as such.

There are, after all, only so many clips of ammunition within the reasonable 'practice' limits. And furthermore, it's not like you still need to practice as much. Shooting is as natural as breathing to you.

And right now, those are two equally labored efforts.

It's all out there now. Whether or not he comes back, the cat is definitely and forever out of the bag. Kensi Blye, who'll sooner shoot a man in the junk than admitting she's capable of obtaining any kind of sugarcoated emotions for anyone, has fully admitted, to herself as well as her team (and her intimidating boss to top it off) that she is irrevocably in love with her partner.

And it scares you more than anything.

Anger, hatred, all the negative emotions are easier, mostly because they require absolutely no reciprocation. Who cares how much a hated person hates you back? It's completely irrelevant. The only thing you need to know when facing any bad guy, in private or on the job, is that you can outsmart, outrun and outshoot them.

When trying the same tactic on a loved one (and God knows you did exactly that), the results were quite opposite. And you're ill prepared for that. Ill prepared for the anxious anticipation which settles in your stomach as you can't do anything but wait for his return.

What if he outran you this time? Is there still a chance for you to play catch-up? Will he let you? Does he even want to?

It hasn't been officially confirmed, but you have all reason to think that phone calls were made, messages were relayed and received and he was on his way back.

Which means you're moments away from the talk. THE talk.

You're terrified it won't be enough. Terrified it will.

You shoot another round of bullets. Upon closer inspection, they just missed the heart by an inch. To you, it's on ominous fail though and you hope it's not a sign.

Not wanting to confront your partner with a gun in your hand, you meticulously clean your gun as well as the assault rifle you used earlier (despite of the late hour; there's no excuse for a faulty gun in the field, where, much unlike their cardboard counterparts, the bad guys tend to shoot back) and put them in lock-down, scribbling your name, service number and autograph on the release form on your way out. Hetty is very meticulous about her paperwork and ever in the dark hours of the night you're aware of the fact. It's safer that way.

The mission is empty and dark, with the exception of the faint lights coming from the corners and the emergency exits. With a skeleton night crew at the ready, the building is never truly empty, but the desks of your team are.

Tired, nervous and weary, you sink into his desk chair, swiveling it around until you get a little queasy from the repetitive motion and keep it still.

What's taking him so long? Where has he been anyway? Is Monty with him? If he is, Deeks wouldn't have gotten very far, at least not on a plane. So he must have taken his car.

Which means he's driving back in the middle of the night. Tired and unfocussed. Is it safe? Is he safe?

Quit it, Kensi! He's a grown man, a good cop, not a bad driver, never reckless (that's more your MO) and he's neither in hot pursuit or being chased by some killers. Nothing is wrong and he'll make it.

And then, ten seconds later, he does…

Deeks

Yep, there she is, just where you pictured she would be, despite of, or perhaps even because of the late hour. Where normal people would count sheep when they can't sleep, Kensi merely counts the bullets she fires at random targets in the range, or perhaps random phantoms in her restless mind.

One of them undoubtedly being you.

Quite frankly, you're not sure how to proceed, though you take it as a good sign that at least her own gun is at her own desk, while she's sitting at yours. Unarmed Kensi is easier to deal with.

If it weren't for the fact that she looks more forlorn than you've ever seen her before. Unarmed as well as unguarded, she's clearly left out of ways to protect herself. To think of the fact she obviously feels she needs to protect herself against you makes your heart ache. But then again, it shouldn't come unexpected. You did turn your back on her three weeks ago and your excuse that you had just had quite enough of your dance has long since lost its credibility, even to you.

Tentatively, you step closer, making it impossible for her to ignore you any longer.

"Hi."

As a first greeting in over three weeks it's beyond Lame with a capital L, but it's the best thing your sleep deprived, befuddled mind can come up with.

"Hi."

Aaaand clearly she's no more tuned in as you are. Maybe you should keep this conversation for some other time, when both of you are a little more rested and ready.

Knowing yourself and her however, that might not happen until about August. Of 2060. That's too long.

"You're back,"

She states the obvious and you bite back the pun already about to slip from your lips. This is not a time for being witty. Or a smartass.

"Yeah…Sam called me."

"Sam?"

"He was worried about you."

"Sam? Why?"

Sigh. Don't do this, Kens. Don't play dumb with me. Not now.

"Because, according to him, it's nothing but sheer dumb luck that prevented you from landing yourself or them in the hospital. Or the morgue."

"Bullshit, I know what I was doing, which was my job. Without my partner."

Ouch. But you kind of had that one coming, so you let it slide.

"True, I wasn't there. But Callen and Sam were and they are both claiming you were taking insane risks!"

Her stubborn mask is scary, as is the sudden movement of her standing up so fast it causes the swivel chair to crash into the wall behind it. Standing inches away from you, her look defiant, she spits out the next words.

"I don't care!"

Great. Just what you needed. A screaming match at…a quick glance at your watch…two fifteen AM. Yeah, just f-ing brilliant

"Well you should! Kensi, why would you not care?"

Stupid question.

"Because you stopped caring!"

Painful answer.

Before your eyes, Kensi reaches the very end of her tether and sinks to her knees. She's not sobbing out loud, but she's merely hugging herself tightly, like she's been stuffed in a freezer and avoiding your gaze, which gives you an excellent view of her cheekbone, where a sole tear carefully makes its way down to her chin.

That's it. Whatever anger and confusion you might have felt as you left this very same room weeks ago, it's gone. Your partner needs you and you'll be damned if you'll ever let something as trivial as your wounded pride come between your needs and hers.

Because now more than ever you're convinced those needs are exactly the same.

Unceremoniously, you drop down on your knees next to her while your hand reaches out to tenderly stop the drop in its path.

"Oh Princess, how could I ever stop caring about you? Don't ever think that again, please."

Her eyes finally lock with yours and you hope that, even in the dim lights of the room, she can still detect all the love you let shine through. When her own hand mirrors yours and traces the moisture on your cheeks away (Were you crying? Really?), you know she has.

"You care?" Her voice is soft with hesitation, ready to believe, but not yet daring.

"Of course I do."

"But I did…and you left!"

"I know. And I know why you thought I abandoned you. And I'm sorry for making you believe that that's what I was doing."

"But…why?"

"Why did I leave, or why do I care?"

She shrugs.

"Either. Both."

You sigh. Point of no return. You've reached it.

Bullshit. You've reached it months ago. Whatever.

"Because, my sweet Kensalina, I was confused. I care so much, love so much, feel so much, but I never know if you even want me to."

"I do." It's a whisper, but you hear it.

"Yet you push me away whenever I try. I'm not accusing you of playing games, I know how hard it is for you to trust, but sweetheart, you can't say one thing and do the other. I'm a man, we're simple creatures, we're no good at mixed messages."

She nods, apparently too tired to deny her own actions. It's encouraging enough for you to move on. Full speed ahead.

"One last time Kensi. Now or never. I'm here. I'm ready. All I have to give is yours. A onetime offer that should last a lifetime if you take it. But it will expire if you don't."

You never planned to give her an ultimatum, but here it is anyway. Your heart is thumping loudly in your ears, but never before has there been so much at stake for either one of you. And though the choice should be easy, and glaringly obvious to anyone, it still takes Kensi one hell of a lot of time to make it.

"No more running?" she pleads.

You shake your head.

"No more. I promise. Promise me the same, Kensi. No more running."

She nods, a small smile curving her delicious lips. Your heart goes into overdrive.

"No more running."

Great. But does that mean…

"So you accept?"

Her eyes shine.

"All you have to offer?"

You nod fervently.

"All of it. All of me. For you."

"That's…a lot."

"You're worth it."

"And what do you want in return?"

You do want to say all of her, but she might not be capable of that just yet, so for now, you amend your list of demands. Honestly, you're happy enough to be in her orbit again

"Whatever it is you want to give me. I'm happy with just being with you. So eh…if you'd just care for me a little, it'll be enough."

She shakes her head at that and for a moment, your heart sinks. Denied. Again.

"I can't do that."

"Do what?"

Oh God, how this hurts!

"Care a little. Can't do that. It has to be a lot. Or more like all of it. It's only fair, don't you think?"

What the…really? Like in, really? Really, really?

You must look like you were clobbered on the head with a baseball bat, because suddenly she giggles uncontrollably.

"Just take it and kiss me, you beautiful doofus!"

Her hands creep up around your neck and she yanks your head down until your lips meet hers in the sweetest, life-altering, earth tilting kiss. You have no idea how long it lasts, but who cares anyway? Only when your nostrils can't get the necessary oxygen to your lungs fast enough do you break the connection, panting as of you crossed the pacific on a surf board. Which wouldn't come close to being as exhilarating as being kissed by Kensi Blye.

Still, one thing…

"Doofus, Kensi? Really?"

THE END.

So…better? Worse? Let me know, please.