Drabble of the Week

Hetty had a safe house, a destination planned the second they were free from the dark water, knowing the small mysterious woman, she likely had this scenario planned out days in advance, weeks maybe.

“I have provisions at our destination,” Hetty sniffed, picking at her damp suit, fabric dripping and likely adding several pounds to her small frame. “I don’t suppose they’d fit you however.”

“Not likely,” Kensi sighed, scuffing the toe of her boot along the asphalt, breathing still unsteady from the unexpected swim, the older woman drained enough that this hiatus from moving from the boatshed had been called, giving them a both a chance to regroup, think over the day’s events.

And God, how she’d currently do anything for the soft sheets of her bed, hot coffee, one of Deeks’ old, oversized shirts covering her frame, and that same man beside her, offering that steady comfort that had coaxed her through these last, painful months.

Though, that scenario, one she’d lived through often, seemed like a blissful, faraway dream when she was crouched beside a marina, utterly drenched and shivering despite the warm temperature.

When Deeks was locked away in a small cell, the distinct and all too real possibility that he could remain there, kept away from her and their future forcing the breath to catch in her throat, blocked off by a lump.

Circumstances ripping her from the one person who could possibly calm the storm crushing her from within, keeping her from Granger’s bedside, the man’s tough love and gruff encouragement helping her from her own troubles recently, though now, he was alone.

And now, now the sharp reality of her lover being behind bars was worse, coupled with the knowledge of just how easily it could become permanent, how easily she could lose him over the confession he’d given her over Christmas, one that had deepened their trust, yet terrified her, piercing her with the fact that even his smile and kisses could be ripped away.

Maybe now they were.

Maybe now she was losing the team she’d fought so hard to regain.

Maybe this was the end.

“We have to keep moving, Ms. Blye,” Hetty’s voice rung out, sharpness doing a good job of masking her exhaustion. “Or we’re useless to all of them.”

“How do you think they’re doing?”

“Giving them hell.”