Drabble of the Week: Count on It

“It’s late,” she mumbled, pressing the power button on the remote with her thumb, killing the monotonous loop of sitcoms that had been playing for hours, only stifled by brief monologs from Deeks or quiet whispers of “I love you” followed by kisses to her jawline or nuzzles to her temple.

“And…”

“And Monty and your Mom are probably waiting up for you, knowing her she still has a hot dinner waiting.”

Shaking his head, Deeks adjusted his elbows from his leaning position on the side of the bed, one she still refused to name hers, the title solidifying everything, forcing this to become entirely real, concrete, though his constant presence was something she could proudly name hers, even when his insistence that everything would work out hurt too much after a morning of not accomplishing standing, and God, the unknowing was killing her more than the weakness.

“They know I’m staying here.”

Biting her lip sharply, a quick attempt to hold back the selfishness that wanted to thank him, beg him to even forgo that musty couch for one night and sleep beside her on the tiny bed; selfishness that ached at the very idea of being alone now with these thoughts, these thoughts whose worst parts were that they were happy, that they were filled with her ideas of how his eventual proposal would go down, happiness, sand, white dresses, and actually getting to walk down the aisle with Julia at her side; Kensi shifted back against the pile of pillows he’d arranged behind her for their TV marathon.

“Or you could go home, get some real sleep tonight, eat something in morning.”

“Kens, I promised.”

The confusion must have shone as brightly on her features as the insistence carried in his tone, something akin to desperation lining the words so clearly.

“The crash, when you-,” clearing his throat, he paused for a nanosecond, perhaps working to get some image of his mind, one she knew haunted his dreams now, seeing the results in his restless sleeping, and then again, she had a similar image, of him with torn skin, bloody lips and his head slumped to his chest, defeat in his eyes still something that put tears in hers. “I promised to get you home. I promised and I needed you to be safe.”

“You did.”

“Home, with the big staircase you wanted and the kitchen bar I asked for, Monty, our bed, our porch where I pretend to hear the ocean and you laugh at me, us, home.”

Caught somewhere between hating him and hating herself for the moisture pricking her eyes, she ignored it, focusing on both of his hands holding her good one. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“I’ll make it happen.”