The Gift in Seeing
Sam and Callen sit in the boatshed, eating and watching their suspect sweat.
"Good cop, bad cop's old," Sam argues, as part of their newly revved debate on how to break the jittery man bouncing a leg in the other room. "And you always play the bad cop."
Callen swallows the bite of chili dog they'd picked up from a nearby vendor. "I'm always the good cop."
"You? Good cop?" Sam scoffs.
Callen grins, reaching for his ringing phone. There's a twinge of panic as he sees Deeks' name on the display. Deeks and Kensi have been on a different assignment and the only reason Deeks would be calling him is if something when wrong. He slams a lid on the rising anxiety.
"Tell me we don't have to come save your sorry ass."
There's a pause. Then, "We lost 12 people today."
Callen's quiet as Deeks recounts the entire situation, the entire case, the hostage situation, and the terrorist with a twitchy trigger finger.
"We didn't even get a chance to negotiate," Deeks laments. "Guy just up and…"
"Kensi?" He can't help the tension in his voice. They know, the team, so the tension, though not unnoticed, goes ignored.
"Safe," Deeks replies.
It's the lack of elaboration that really it does it for Callen. Safe means physically. Kensi's bad.
"Where did she go?" Callen asks, rubbing his fingers over his forehead, lunch forgotten.
"She's in the car. Place is crawling with agents and cops."
"Call Hetty," Callen orders. "Get her home and get to the boatshed." He hangs up.
"I hate Shaggy."
Callen doesn't even look over. "Twitchy trigger-finger terrorist."
Sam sets his sandwich down. "I'll make sure Eric e-mails the files."
It is the closest they are going to get. Kensi's in Callen's hands now.
It worries him, the kind of pressure that puts on him. He's not the right person to help a struggling Kensi Blye. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know where to start. Yet, he's still moving swiftly, climbing into his car and breaking more than a few traffic laws along the way.
Because it's Kensi.
And even if he doesn't know what to do, even if he doesn't know where to start, he knows he has to be there.
He finds her in his chair, dangling a beer bottle. He leans against the doorway.
She doesn't even look at him. Instead, she sips from the bottle. Her eyes are dark, staring out the window. She knows Deeks would have called. She knows why he's home so early in the afternoon when he should be working on a case of his own.
They're at an impasse for the moment. Kensi won't talk, but neither will he. He's given her the option to talk and she's not ready. Or won't. He's never quite sure which way it goes with her He goes back to the kitchen, grabs his own beer.
She's shifted when he returns, facing forward. Her beer's on the floor and she look so very vulnerable. He takes a pull from his own bottle and waits. Because he doesn't know what else to do.
Much ot his surprise, it pays off.
"We didn't even know," she says quietly, her head falling back against the chair. "G, we didn't even know."
He's not sure if he's supposed to say anything and placating words are generally not his thing. Silence in the face of a pain is really his naturally employed strategy.
"We didn't suspect him. Neither of us. We had our eyes on a different guy. Friend. Longer, shy. Perfect. He wasn't even supposed to be in that café."
And then it all made sense. She and Deeks had been royally, quite thoroughly duped.
It goes beyond just the death of innocents. It goes beyond whatever she's been battling these past couple of weeks. She's failed, epically. And she's not sure how to come back from that.
He moves towards her without thinking, managing to set his beer on the coffee table. He crouches in front of her, his hands coming to rest on her sock-clad feet. He's more than surprised to see the tears swimming in her eyes. Kensi doesn't cry.
"How did we not see it? How did we not know it was a set up?"
His hands slide up her legs, then back down to her ankles. Kensi's hands drop to his wrists and squeeze. The next thing he knows, she's shifted off the chair and into his lap. It's more than a shock, it's out of character. Instinct makes him wrap her up in his arms, makes her cling. He doesn't know what to do.
She does, and her lips press to his throat, open-mouthed and suggestive. He resists as her mouth moves across his throat, his jaw. Her mouth open over his, demanding entrance he gives without a second thought. She cups his face, drinking from him, drowning in him. He gives back, responding to every movement, every brush, with one of his own.
He let her have control.
She pushes back on him desperately, managing to topple him backwards. Kensi straddles his hips, pressing against him with wanton desperation. Callen grips her thighs, slides his hands upward in an attempt to enflame and gain leverage. He uses it to flip them, to bear down on her.
He can give her this.
She tries to fight, to regain dominance, but he counters each of her attacks, each of her attempts. He pins her eventually and uses his teeth down her neck, his tongue across her collarbones above her t-shirt. She gasps and arches, surprisingly quiet as he dances his mouth over her skin. She clenches at his head, his ears, his neck, whimpering when he pulls his mouth away. But his hands are already yanking her shirt over her head.
He tosses it aside and brings his mouth to her face. He can taste the salt on Kensi's cheeks, the tears and it checks the heat raging in his blood. He can't take. Not today. Not after the day she's had.
He has to give.
That, he can do. He's done it before, like this, with her. He can give to Kensi.
When he presses his mouth against hers it's gentle and exploratory. His tongue strokes hers slowly. His hands slow in their caresses of her skin. Instead of arching and moaning, she shivers with his reduced heat. She fights him, tries to turn the kiss hotter, turn his caresses more desperate. He pins her hands above her head in retaliation, leans up to trail his mouth from her wrists, down to the bend in her elbows.
"Callen," she whimpers.
He moves until his lips hover just over hers. "Kensi," he whispers. "Kensi."
His kiss is gentle, tender, beautiful in it's simplicity. She arched against him. He settled more fully on top of her.
"Let me," he says quietly against her cheek. "Kens, just let me…"
He gentles his hold on her hands experimentally. She doesn't move, but he's cautious when he releases her wrist. He's got a plan forming. He can give her this.
His mouth trails down her neck, down the strap of her beige work bra. He follows it over the soft lump of her breast. Her breath is spreading up as his mouth follows the edge of her bra. He keeps his mouth gentle, light, teasing. He knows she wants more, can feel it in the thrum of her pulse, the vibrations of her body. But quick and dirty won't help her.
His hands slide along her bra, her ribcage, following the cloth that wraps around her torso. She arches her back so he can get at her bra clasp. Moments later, her torso's naked and she wraps her arms around his neck. She gets bolder when he doesn't shrug her off, running her hands down his back until she reaches the hem of his t-shirt. He lets her – and yes 'let' is the right word – tug his shirt over his head.
He uses the advantage of surprise and the split-second she takes to toss the shirt aside to lean down and capture a breast in his mouth. He takes his time now, teasing with those maddening soft touches. Kensi can feel the swelling in her blood, can feel the emotions mixing swirling, crowding in, making it harder to breathe.
And he hasn't even really touched her yet.
But he's going to, oh is he going to. This isn't their usual style. Either of them. This slow, building, smoldering passion is rare, but beautiful. He focuses all of his intensity, all of his energy on her, on her pleasure. He makes her the centre of his world for however long they're together. It's a heady feeling.
It's what he's doing right now.
His mouth slides to her other breast and he shifts for better balance. Her hands hold his head to her chest as his fingers brush her hips, slip along the waistband of her jeans.
"Callen," she whispers. "Please. Touch me."
Her hands grip his hips, just above the line of his jeans. Her fingertips dig into his skin as his mouth blazes a wet trail down the centre of her stomach. He dips his tongue briefly into her bellybutton and makes her arch, a cry strangled in her throat. He doesn't linger though. He drags more wet kisses the short distance to the line of her panties. He's got her so wrapped up in this spell, his spell that she's missed him dealing with the fastenings of his jeans.
"Yes," she hisses, tilting her pelvis.
Callen's fingers slip under plain, simple cotton. She lifts and he pulls her pants and panties down. He takes her socks too, then trails gentle fingers up her legs. He twirls circles on her thighs, moving up and in at a maddening pace. When he gets to the top, however, the hot, wet glorious skin between her thighs, he's firm and knowing. He touches her with intent, with a goal and he pushes her higher and higher.
Her peak puts cracks in her. When she manages to get back enough oxygen to breathe, she's pleased to find he's stripped out of his pants and hovers over her, waiting.
Love me, Kensi thinks as she pulls him down on top of her. Callen doesn't hesitate, and Kensi wraps her leg around his hip as he slides inside. His pace is low, tempered, again, not her preferred choice, but that means nothing in the face of the feeling. Every warm, hard, glorious inch of him is pressed against her. The emotions haven't destroyed her, haven't broken her completely, but this slow pace is pushing it all back up her throat.
"Harder," she begs, and her voice breaks. "Faster."
He complies, though incrementally, but it's a consistent increase. His mouth moves to the skin of her neck, murmuring just under his breath, barely loud enough to hear over the pounding in her blood, the emotions screaming in her head. It's one of his languages, not hers, but she can't miss the intent, the beautiful, glorious emotion buried deep in the way his voice resonates against her skin.
And this time, she shatters, breaks into pieces, the overwhelming emotions bleeding into her climax until she can't breathe. Her lungs spasm, somewhere between a real sob and one of ecstasy. He stays with her, buries his face in her neck. She wraps herself around him, clings to him in a way that's out of character. He doesn't try and push her away, that's not the way it works anymore, and lets her hold on.
"How do you know?" she says through the last of her tears. "How do you always know?"
He pushes his weight up and Kensi releases him without thought. He grips her hand when he's rolled aside. "Know what?"
"What I need."
Kensi shakes her head, weaving their fingers together.
"No, Kensi. What do you mean? You're crying."
"Yeah," she says quietly, but how does she tell him that's the point? How does she explain that she feels safe enough to break with him, loved enough that she knows he won't see her as less. In fact, maybe he'll see her as more.
When she turns to him he sees it, all of it, in her eyes, in her tears, in every line of her face. He's given her everything. He's given her a home, a place to fall.
Nomadic, emotional, oh-so-broken Agent G Callen. They've created something stronger than he's ever suspected, than he ever expected. They've built a world around each other, around them, and looking at her now, beautiful broken Kensi, he is humbled.
She laughs then, a little breathless and more than a little watery. "Yeah."
This is It.
For both of them.
And now they can see how unbreakable they are, how strong they are.
So, this is officially complete in my brain. No more. For this story at least. I've got a couple more ideas floating around in my head but my muse has been so touch and go recently that it's difficult to handle sometimes.
Thanks for all who stayed with me, stuck with me, read this start to finish. It's awesome to have people consistent like that. There aren't words to describe what it's like to have people so incredibly awesome behind me when I do this kind of thing. Thank you. Seriously.