And I didn't

"Do you know how many returning veterans have been killed on motorcycles?"

What the hell?

"Do you know how many surfers survived shark attacks?"

Kensi is standing there, reading off all these random facts as if…

"What does that have to do with anything?"

My point, "Exactly."

"Look, deaths from motor vehicle collisions, specifically motorcycles, are more prominent than suicides and overdoses in returning veterans. Five times the national average."

"Okay, and I fully admit that is a tragic statistic, but it's irrelevant to me because I am not a combat veteran."

"No, you're not," she said, stepping back defensively. "But you… you went through a very traumatic experience…"

Oh.

"Is that what this is about?"

She walked around the car.

"I know what I'm talking about. Okay?"

I looked over my shoulder, away from her piercing gaze. Sure she does, with Jack. But what right did she have to look at me that way after she ran away? After she… left me?

"Risky behavior is one of the most common symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress," she continued.

"Maybe this isn't risky behavior," I cut in, even knowing full well that she was closer to the truth than was comfortable. "Maybe I just read some Kerouac and saw Easy Rider and I want to feel the wind in my hair," I smirked.

Playing things off as a joke was always easier, especially right now… and especially with Kensi.

"You can't feel the wind in your hair if you're wearing a helmet, genius," she snapped back.

As much as it hurt, I realized that this wasn't coming just from me.

"You know what, Kensi," I said as I walked toward her. "You don't… you don't have to worry about me."

"Yes I do."

"No," I returned equally fast. "You don't."

"Yes I do," she returned narrowing her eyes. There was more expression in that one look than had passed between us, well, ever. The old Marty Deeks would have taken it and run with it. He would have... But he wasn't here.

There was a slight pause. Then, as was scarily becoming the norm, Kensi continued.

"You're my partner Deeks," she said shaking her head, as if even she didn't fully believe the words coming out of her mouth. As if neither on acknowledging that word's double meaning made it go away. "It is my job to keep you safe."

The unspoken, And I didn't, was heavy in the air.

She felt... guilty.

A part of me was glad. She left me there. She should feel guilty. But the cop side of me understood. Had the roles been reversed, I had no doubt that I wouldn't have left her. I would have defied rules and orders... everything. To get her out. To save her.

Just because I understood, that didn't make it all better. In fact, it made it worse.

Neither one of us could hold eye contact for more than a brief second, but it was enough to see tears shining in her eyes before she reached out and punched me lightly.

"Now get in the car and… put on your seatbelt."

And really, what was there to say? I was always the instigator of the talking… the one who dug deeper than the surface. And I couldn't do it anymore. At least, not right now.

"Yes mom," I responded instead. I pretended not to notice the disappointed droop of her shoulders. "You got a kid's seat in the back?"

And on the ride back to the mission, I tried to pretend that things weren't awkward. My "partner" (insert juvenile air quotes here) didn't carry the guilt of my torture. She didn't leave me behind with a mad man. There was nothing tense about us.

Because we're good.

Right?