Just because there has to be a time when it ends... and maybe this is how.

Disclaimer: Oh no, they definitely aren't my characters. I make them miserable.

The day he leaves NCIS, he gets his hair cut, sneering at himself for the transparent connection between the two.

He can't get used to the way he looks afterwards. It's been years since his name wasn't synonymous with his shaggy hair and scruffy demeanour and now he feels like he's not himself any more. Maybe he isn't.

There are already five missed calls on his cell and he knows she won't give up until there are hundreds more. He'll answer it before it gets that far, of course, it's just that now; two hours after he left the place he's worked in for the past six years, he's really not in the mood to calm her down. He needs to settle himself first.

His phone lights up silently in his hand. Call six. He ignores it and two minutes later there's a text. She doesn't leave voicemails because she knows he won't listen to them.

Please answer the phone.

It doesn't say anything else. They aren't the kind to put long, heartfelt confidences in writing.

He doesn't want to go home and stops at a coffee place he's never been in before. It's been a long time since he's felt this alone.

They've had a month's notice but it wasn't enough. Not that it matters, since he doesn't think twice that would have prepared him for what it feels like. He wonders if it's the same for her this time as it was when he'd been forced to pretend to be leaving, so long ago now. Maybe having experienced it once the shock is lessened for her now.

He feels as though he doesn't fit anywhere. Nominally, he's due back at LAPD on Monday and he's already had an invite to a reorientation meeting. After six years, he thinks he needs more than a reorientation meeting, but it doesn't matter – he'll be out on assignment again soon, so it won't hurt him if he can't remember the photocopier code. It'll be strange, being permanently uprooted once more. Since he became NCIS liaison his undercover stints have lasted only a few weeks, at most, and he's got used to being able to slip back into his day-to-day life easily. Before, he was used to not seeing his own home for months at a time, exchanging words only with people he could never entirely trust.

He orders a muffin with his coffee and eats it slowly, breaking it apart, allowing self-pity to wash over him. Even by his dramatic standards, feeling nostalgic already is a little premature. And truthfully, he knows his ties aren't severed. He'll still see the team – or most of them, anyway – but it won't be the same. They will have that unique tie created through living side-by-side constantly on the edge of chaos and he won't be part of that anymore.

When Hetty finally retired two years ago, worn out by office politics, he still hadn't signed the papers she offered him a long time ago. He repeated what he'd told her then, that he was a cop and still felt like a cop, no matter how long he'd spent with a federal agency. She looked at him and sighed, reminding him this could be the last opportunity; after this there would be no guarantee NCIS would accept him permanently, not without her there.

It sounds stupid now, but they never considered the arrangement ending. It worked, having a link between NCIS and LAPD, although he forces himself to admit that six years away has shifted his loyalties more than he anticipated when he first took up the post. With Hetty gone and a new manager in place, it had been even more important to co-ordinate activity across the city, so they had fallen into complacency.

When the word came from the LAPD that they were recalling their liaison officer, he'd watched his partner's face freeze but he still couldn't say with any certainty what she was feeling. Two years ago, when he first openly acknowledged to himself that their attraction was more than physical desire and wasn't going away any time soon, he knew she wasn't ready. It might have taken him a long time to come out of denial completely, but it was always going to take her longer. Since then, he's remained silent whilst Kensi has tried to carry on oblivious to the chemistry between them, his normally impatient instinct tamped down by his knowledge of her. Now he wishes he'd pushed her.

Of course, he could still apply to join NCIS. The long way, without Hetty to ease the path. The thing is, he's not sure he wants to. His identity is caught up with being a cop, not a federal agent, and even he isn't sure why it's so important to him. He certainly finds it hard to believe it's more important than remaining with the team he's belonged to for the past six years. And even if NCIS did accept him – which they might not, despite the work he's put in as part of them – there's no guarantee they'd allow him to stay with the team. Or even in LA, come to that.

At least this way he knows he won't be that far from her.

He drains his coffee and leaves, ignoring the interested glances from the girl clearing the tables. He suddenly feels too old even to send her a flirty wink and he has to remind himself that life hasn't ended just because something has changed.

Recently, he's been thinking a lot about the future, especially after the false deadline of him leaving appeared. Whilst he's by no means old, he's reached the point where the idea of a slightly more settled life and maybe even a family is more appealing than it ever has been in the past. He can't deny that Kensi has been a wishful thought in the coalescing strands of his speculation but underneath it all he's a realist. He still has no concrete conviction that this bizarre, undefined thing between them would ever have occurred if they hadn't been thrown together by Hetty and put through more perilous situations than most people experience in a lifetime. Forcing its way to the front of his mind is the worry that they will find there is no connection at all, even as friends, now that they aren't facing the possibility of death (or at least serious injury) together on a regular basis. It makes him think that he should be looking elsewhere.

He drives the rest of the way home on autopilot, trying so hard not to let his mind land on one single thing that everything jumbles together in his thoughts. He misses the figure on sitting on the step until she rises.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, entirely aware that it's an unreasonable, unfair question to a partner who has been nothing but dependable, even in their early days.

She isn't perturbed and he's vaguely annoyed by her calmness.

"Wanted to check on you."

"Check on me doing what? Finding my way home? Making dinner?" He tries hard to keep his voice light but he's pretty certain she'll hear the undercurrent of bitterness.

She shrugs her shoulders. "If you like. You obviously did okay with the first part of that." She steps closer and tentatively reaches out to brush her fingers over his newly shorn head. "What made you do this?"

He gestures carelessly, not sure what he's trying to indicate. "Just time. Can't look like Shaggy forever. New start on Monday." He opens his front door and doesn't try to stop her following him in.

He bought this house last year, finally committing to something more than a rolling rental contract. It had taken him six months of dithering before he'd even agree to seeing more than one place in a weekend, but he had taken to this house on first sight after countless weekends of dispirited viewings. He'd been on his own the first time he saw it and when he'd taken her with him for a second look a couple of days later he'd surprised himself by his sudden desire to own it. Now, despite all the work that's gone into it over the last year, he feels strangely detached from it, as though it isn't really his home.

"You staying for a bit?" he asks, wandering through to the kitchen and offering her a beer from the fridge.

She looks at him questioningly for a moment, then seems to decide against whatever she was going to ask. "Depends. You cooking?"

He laughs, ruefully. He knows what she's angling at. "Not tonight, Kens. You'll have to look elsewhere to feed your new pasta habit." Last month he'd made penne arrabiata and she'd come back two days later demanding more. Since then she's been trying to coax another dinner invite out of him.

"Damn. Pizza?"

He nods and watches her pull a menu from a pile in a drawer. She's never spent all that much time here – they don't live in each other's pockets – but she seems to know where everything is.

He calls the pizza place and they talk about anything but the thing that marks today out. It's as if they're both trying to pretend today wasn't the last day he would spend with NCIS and they're actually pretty good at it. He thinks they could probably keep it up longer if Monday wasn't going to be a concrete reminder of the change.

When the pizza arrives she automatically moves to find plates and snag two more beers from the fridge, turning to find him depositing boxes on the counter.

"Oh, garlic bread," she exclaims, disproportionately pleased at the unexpected addition.

He grins. "You're pretty easy to win over."

She loads her plate and carries it back through to the other room, nudging him with her hip as she does so. "Try not to tell everyone."

He raises his eyebrows as she goes, surprised at her relaxed demeanour. It's new for him to be the anxious one and for her to be taking everything in her stride. For a moment, he considers whether she really isn't bothered by what's happening, but he dismisses that fairly quickly once the memory of her frozen expression in the face of the announcement resurfaces in his mind. She is bothered and there has to be a reason for whatever she's doing now.

She turns the television on and starts scrolling through the channels; he knows she's looking for anything light-hearted enough to take her mind off the week they've had. That's why she watches so many reality shows – it's simply because she can't handle serious programmes when she's spent all day in near chaos.

It's a comfortable silence despite the occasion, until he starts his third slice of pizza and realises she's looking at him.

"Kensi. You're staring," he says mildly, not turning towards her.

She hesitates. "I can't get used to your hair," she says quietly.

Something in her tone makes him frown. "It's just a haircut, Kens."

She bites her lip. Sometimes he wishes she wouldn't do that. "It's not. It's... different."

He feigns cheerfulness. "Can't keep going undercover with hair like I had. Always surprising I wasn't recognised more often."

Once again her fingers skate over the shortened strands – and he really wishes she wouldn't do that. It's a tender touch and one he can't afford to get used to. Not whilst he can't even guess how she feels.

"So you're going under again?" she asks slowly, her hand still hovering at his temple.

He doesn't move. "Won't know till Monday. But if they ask... yes." He tries to grin. "Can't see me fitting back into the department, can you?"

She laughs and her hand moves back to her lap as though she's just realised she shouldn't be touching him like that. "Okay. I just... I thought..."

He fights his instinct to interject, forcing himself to stay silent so that she has to finish.

"I thought you'd be around still," she blurts out, her faces flushing instantly.

"Well, I won't be gone forever," he says, trying to maintain his facade of reason against the urge to fall into despondency. "It'll depend on how long I go under for. Not everything I used to do for the LAPD lasted for months."

She nods and says nothing, reaching for another slice and turning her attention back to the television. He doesn't try to extend the conversation – because after all, what can he say?

During the commercials, she takes the plates back into the kitchen and he thinks she's getting more pizza until he hears a faint noise. It sounds like a choked sob and however hard he tries to persuade himself it isn't, a second sound brings him to his feet.

"Kensi?" he calls tentatively, still hoping his ears are playing tricks. He's seen his partner cry only a few times since they met and he hates it every time.

"I'm okay," she responds brightly and he can hear her opening the fridge.

She has her back to him when he enters the kitchen, opening the two bottles on the counter in front of her. Her back is ramrod straight, tension radiating from her, and he's sure her hand is shaking slightly as she holds the bottle. He wants to put his arms around her and reassure her it will be all right, no matter how it feels now; but even if he thought it really would be, he still doesn't feel as if he has the right to comfort her like that.

Instead, he places his hand lightly on her shoulder, just so she knows he's there.

"You're not okay," he says lamely, wishing he could magically come up with something to say that would mitigate the day they're having.

She snorts derisively. "No, Deeks, I'm not okay. What on earth gave it away?"

He ignores her tone. "I'm good at reading people, remember?" he teases gently. Her body shivers under his hand as the tension becomes too much for her. "Hey. Turn round."

She turns slowly, not really looking at him. Her eyes are slightly pink, the mismatched colours glistening no matter how often she blinks.

"I'm not okay either," he says, his voice low.

She waits a second, then nods before closing the gap between them and wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands move to her back, sliding in comforting strokes; her head nestles beneath his chin, her hair soft against his skin.

And this time it's natural, not awkward like some of their previous hugs. This time, it's what they need right now to remind each other that this doesn't have to be the end of everything.

"You just left," she mumbles, not making any move to break their contact, "and then you wouldn't answer the phone."

He thinks it probably isn't the time to say quite how out of character is her sudden desire to talk.

"I told you I didn't want anything big," he reminds her.

"Yeah, but... I thought you just meant no parties. No big send off. The guys... We wanted to at least take you for a drink." She laughs slightly. "Nell even found the smallest sorry you're leaving banner in existence, just so you couldn't accuse us of making a fuss."

He smiles, tightening his hold on her. "I'll text her. She can use it in a few weeks when I'm not quite so..."

He doesn't finish his sentence because he doesn't know how to describe how he feels. Raw? Fragile? Just plain sad? Nothing seems to quite fit the churning in his stomach and the coldness hovering just beneath his skin.

She nods and he feels the movement rather than sees it. "Okay. But you should have answered the phone." Her hand moves from the back of his neck over his hair again and oh, he could get used to this far too quickly. "I'd have stopped you doing this."

Now he laughs out loud. "Really, Kens? You've spent six years winding me up and it turns out that secretly you liked the shaggy look? Coulda told me three hours ago."

She leans back from him to meet his gaze, still not stepping out of his embrace. "You just don't look like you now. And you don't need a bigger ego, mister."

He tilts his head forward so their foreheads meet. "I don't have much ego left where it comes to you," he murmurs.

It doesn't make much sense, but she seems to understand what he means.

"S'pose I have kept you hanging a bit," she admits hesitantly, a pale rosy pink shading over her face.

He swipes the final tear from beneath her left eye. "We don't have to talk about this now." His hand moves from her face to tuck her hair behind her ear and stop her using it to hide behind.

It's not the time and he knows it. They need to see if they can get through this change first, before they try anything else. But those last few exchanges, no matter how brief, have given him the hope he's been waiting for for the last few years now. Although the last few vestiges of denial haven't yet fallen from her, she isn't fighting herself any more.

She bites her lip. "Thank you," she says suddenly, her voice faint and unsteady, as though she's on the verge of saying more.

He puts his finger to her lips so that she knows it's enough for now. She doesn't have to say anything else to reassure him.

Her hands are still on his shoulders and she isn't displaying her usual twitchiness at their proximity. He wonders quite how shell-shocked she is right now; he knows the past few weeks haven't been easy on either of them and he himself has felt slightly dazed ever since he found out he was going back to LAPD. They haven't really talked about it and every time the others have tried to bring it up one of them has changed the subject so determinedly that there's been no choice but to go along with it. There's been numerous quiet moments in the car when he's wanted to ask how she feels, wanted her to talk about what would happen once he leaves, but he knows her well enough to recognise all of the barriers she's been erecting.

"You could... try to fit in to the department," she says with a sigh, as if there isn't much possibility. "Maybe try something other than undercover work."

He pulls a face, suddenly not wanting to continue the conversation. Gently, he moves away from her, handing her a bottle and taking one for himself.

"I don't know," he says over his shoulder as he returns to the safety of his couch. "Not sure there's much hope of that, do you?"

"Hey," she calls after him, catching him up and settling beside him, "you've been gone a long time, any bad history will be long forgotten." She stares briefly at a spot beyond his head. "I just think... we need..." She stops and takes a deep breath. "I need you not to disappear right now," she blurts out, as if it has taken all her effort just to formulate the words.

He doesn't respond for a moment and she won't even look at him. He doesn't know what to say. He can't imagine not going back undercover, no matter how much the idea of living a second life for so long is off-putting to him now. He can't imagine any other department welcoming him – yes, he's been gone a long time, but history spreads like the plague in the LAPD and he knows every rookie detective will have heard of the unconventional liaison to NCIS who never quite clicked with most other cops.

"You think other departments will be opening their arms to me?" he says lightly, trying to make a joke of it. "Can't see Homicide wanting me in their ranks, for a start. I don't think I have much choice. Drug squad always needs people to infiltrate." He reaches for her hand and squeezes it briefly. "Doesn't mean I'm disappearing, Kens. I'm always going to come back."

She frowns. "But in how long? A month, six months, a year?" She laughs bitterly. "God, I sound like a whiny child. I can't stop you, go back under. We'll see how it goes."

He takes her other hand as well, turning her body to face him. "I won't know till Monday. But I don't want... I can't expect that they'll go with what I want, even if I asked."

She stares at their linked hands. "It would be good to know what you want, though," she mumbles, clearly embarrassed.

He knows his answer's important. "I want us to have this conversation in a few weeks' time, when everything has calmed down," he says quietly.

Now she stares at him and he can see the hurt in her eyes. Before she can speak, he carries on.

"I just said to you that we don't need to talk about this now and you know I meant we don't need to talk about us. I meant it. I'm not fobbing you off and I'm not trying to change the subject." He hesitates, then decides he might as well say it now as later. "I do want to have the conversation. It is important to me and," his eyes soften as he meets her gaze, "I don't think you realise quite how much it matters to me right now that we don't make decisions in the heat of the moment that there's any chance of regretting later."

She pauses for a moment and then nods, her hands squeezing his briefly to show him she understands. She's never been good at finding the words to express emotions far deeper than she likes to acknowledge.

When she settles back into the cushions and focuses determinedly on the television, he thinks that's the last they will speak of it for a while. On Monday it will be tough to get through the day, one step ahead of despondency as it chases them, separately now. He already knows that they won't speak on Monday evening, however much they might want to; they have to learn to live separately before they can decide they don't want to.

Her hand stays in his and for now, it's enough. Just enough to remind him that things have changed and will change. Just enough to remind them that the end of one thing doesn't have to be the end of everything.

The one-shots work so much better for me... As always, I love to know what people think.