Argh, sorry for the delay. Geez, the first week of supposed updates, and I missed it, what a loser. :p
Well, as compensation I wanted to share that I found this awesome tumblr for Kensi and Deeks: fuckyeahkensideeks(dot)tumblr(dot)com/
The site's awesome and has amazing graphics and insider scoops, which is always nice! :D It does not have much foul language if the URL is kind of scaring you off; that's just a tumblr thing.
So, down to fic shall we? Just so you know, the first fic was totally run by the song Empty Bottles by Tangent Transmission, which is a song actually featured in NCIS: LA. Check out that song if you can! It's awesome. :)
Spoilers for Personal
#303: Make this the first line of your story:
Catching the signal from one of her friends, "Angela" brushed her skirt, took a deep breath and walked towards where he was sitting.
She puts a breezy smile on her face and a sway in her hips as she makes her way to his floppy-haired head. When Deeks stands up from the table, hands up in surrender and his 'schmoozing' smile on his face, she realizes whatever G and Sam had heard over the comms had escalated quickly in the brief time since they'd signaled her, not moments before.
She makes it to her partner—Derrick Slater this time—and lands sloppily on his elbow, giggling drunkenly and resting on his shoulder. The three lugheads still seated at the table hardly even register her arrival. They're accustomed to her now after all; she's just Derrick's lush of a girlfriend, she poses no threat what-so-ever to them.
What a surprise they're in for.
"Listen, guys, there's no need for anything extreme. Just give me one more day and I'll get you the stuff, no problem." His voice sounds tense and breathy; she knows that means he expects trouble. She braces herself and signals that she's got the big guy on the left by squeezing his left hand which is now at his side tensing into a fist.
"One more day, huh?" the guy directly across the table from her partner says. He's got some kind of cliché Italian accent that makes her want to role her eyes, but she hides it by burying her face in her 'boyfriend's neck with another stupid giggle. "That's good, Slate, as a matter of fact that would be ideal, but you see: your boy was already two days late with my product. It's understandable that you would have some minor delays after I… relieved you of his employment, thus the reason I gave you a previous extension. And yet, here we are, and you are still late with my product. I find this unacceptable. And while I like you, I truly do Slate, my boy, you have to understand that I'm running a business, and my business is conducted with very…" he pauses as if to think about his word choice. The men at his side shift to gain better access to their weapons. "strict procedures." The man smiles greasily at Deeks.
"So, you see, I have to make an example of you to keep up my business protocols. It's nothing personal, Slate. Just wrong time, wrong place, my friend. You understand, right?" The slimy smile stays in place as he stands up and fixes his coat.
Deeks lets out a grin that Kensi nearly classifies as feral before rumbling out "Of course, Ronnie. The business world is harsh."
Ronnie chuckles and grins at Deeks like he's his favorite nephew or something then leaves a bill on the table and turns around with a flighty "another time, Slate." as his men stand up from their seats and reach into the jackets for what are sure to be glocks.
And just like that Kensi and Deeks are in motion. Kensi kicks out, pushing the chair the thug to her left had been sitting in into the back of his knees, sending him crashing back into it and his gun to the ground. When he jumps back up from the seat she kicks out again, this time tripping him up and sending him forward instead of back. She helps his fall along by grabbing the back of his sweaty, bald head and smashing it against the table as he falls, his limp head landing next to the gun she promptly grabs up.
Simultaneously, Deeks had reached to his right, grabbing lughead number two's lower arm as it had extended outward to shoot him and twirling the appendage around. The thug's hand automatically let go of the gun as his arm was sent into angles it was never meant to reach. In an automatic defensive reaction, the thug's free arm grabbed toward the detective. Deeks quickly trapped the attacking arm under his own, pulling the thug in close enough to land a harsh head-butt to the man's thick skull. The man stumbled back in shock, freed from Deeks' grasp only long enough to be knocked unconscious by the same fist that had previously been holding him captive. Deeks had the crook's gun off the floor before he'd even hit the ground.
Both guns pointed at the back of the slimy drug dealer across the table from them.
"And I hope you understand, you long-winded bastard, that this is entirely personal."
888
#304: Write a story about power with a policeman as the main character and an old pair of shoes as the key object. Set your story in the [hospital room]:
Sitting laconically on the side of his bed, the LAPD detective tries to muster the strength to lean forward and pick up his running shoes.
After the struggle that was getting on the rest of his clothes, however, his body has pretty much declared mutiny and isn't falling for any of his bullshit. He lets out a sigh and spares himself a sympathetic wince before he pretty much throws himself forward and lets his arms flop in front of him in an action that bares a slim resemblance to actually bending over and reaching.
He involuntarily lets out a pained moan as his bullet wounds, just barely beginning to scab over, stretch and protest the stressed position. He flails his arms about and ceases breathing while he tries mightily to hook a shoe with his flailing fingers. Hooking one, he lets his breath out as he pulls his upper half back upright.
Panting to catch his breath, he glances down to the shoe in his hand which only causes the burning of his wounds to intensify. His old running shoes, shoes he must have had for going on four years now, are covered in his own browning blood. Splattered like bad art, it covers the toes of the shoe, probably from the first shot, when he'd still been standing.
He can see it all clearly now, no longer clouded by good pain meds. He's sucked back into it; the shock of the hit, the confusion of looking up at the malicious eyes above him, the numb pressure of his chest, the fear of that gun pointed at his head, the regret of- of everything.
"Hey, you decent?"
Part of him wants to turn to her and point out what a pointless question that is, considering she's already in the room, but a larger part of him keeps him still, trapped by the memory of being shot.
He can see her fidget slightly out of the corner of his eye as he contemplates his shoe. That could have been all that was left of him. If they had wanted him instead of Kensi, all that would be of Detective Marty Deeks is a pair of bloody sneakers sticking out of a white sheet on a convenience store floor.
How sad.
He sighs and tosses the shoe back to the ground where he'd painstakingly fished it from. Kensi fidgets a few moments more before making her way into the room fully and sitting on the bed. She opens her mouth a few times, like she really wants to say something, but in the end she simply closes her mouth and turns to the bag Deeks finally notices she brought with her. He glances over to watch what she does.
Eventually she turns back to him and holds up a pair of blue slip-on Vans he recognizes as his own. He only wonders how she got into his home—or for that matter how she knew where he lived at all—for a moment before he sees a very familiar piece of technology wrapped around her wrist ticking away, as it used to do for him.
His watch. On her wrist.
A new feeling takes up residence in his chest at that thought, one he doesn't particularly want to think about right now, so instead he focuses on the helpless look on her face as she offers him his shoes.
He smiles gratefully at her and takes them, slipping them on as he stands.
"How'd you know I'd need my slip-ons?" he asks, not really interested in the answer.
"I told you I'd been shot before. I wish I'd had some slip-ons back then; man, it was killer to ties those laces."
"Oh, really? You know, that fits very well with my 'shot in the butt' theory." He smiles as she walks beside him as they make their way out of the room. He's acutely aware that those damn running shoes are still on the floor behind them, but he really doesn't care as he makes his escape.
"I'm so not going there, Deeks." He does a fake pout which makes her smirk at him. "Maybe next time, partner."
He thinks maybe next time he won't have so many regrets.
888
#152: "Ice water in her veins" for three minutes:
He waits patiently with his hands in his pockets outside her door. He rocks slightly on his heels and feels his chest tighten in anticipation and anxiety.
He listens as her footsteps come closer to the door. He can hear when she reaches the threshold and leans against it to look through the peephole. An almost apologetic smile comes to his face as he glances at the peephole, and he imagines hearing the angry sigh he knows she lets out upon seeing him.
The door unlocks and swings open to reveal her mismatched eyes already glaring at him. His smile fades to a grimace.
God, he'd hoped this time they wouldn't have to fight.
"You're late."
"I know, my paperwork took longer than I thought it would, and there was an incident down at the precinct-"
"Jesus, Marty, I don't need to hear your excuses. If you'd just get here on time for once in your life then-"
"What are you talking about? I'm not late every time! Besides, why do you have such an issue with me being late? What, you can't spend twenty more minutes with your own-"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence! Besides, if you cared at all you'd be here on time. Instead you half-ass it like you do everything else."
"I never half-assed anything when it came to you. Just because what I offered wasn't enough doesn't mean that this," he gestured between them with a wave of his hand, "was my fault. If there's one thing I've tried at in my life, it was us."
One day, long ago, that sort of line, the sincerity in his eyes, and bitter longing in his voice would have made her cave. She would have huffed, slumped her shoulders, pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes and that would be that. She'd forgive him, they'd have dinner, and everything would be the same except for when they'd hold each other a little tighter that night.
But there've been too many fights like this now. So many that no sincerity or heartfelt admission will ever warm the ice water in her veins when it comes to Marty Deeks.
"Well you didn't try hard enough."
It cuts him deep to hear her say that; to hear her confirm one of his greatest fears. That deep, wounding type of vitriolic comeback was one of the reasons they'd gotten the divorce. They knew each other too well. As their love had faded, they knew just where to stick those harsh lines to inflict the most damage. The constant warfare being waged in their home was just too much to handle in the end. Besides, they'd both agreed (for the first time in a long time) that the constant arguments were no way to raise-
"Daddy!"
The puff of brown hair that flies from behind his ex-wife and barrels into his stomach cuts off his train of thought along with any harsh comeback that had been bubbling in the back of his mind. Glancing up at Kensi, he sees that old familiar light in her eyes, full of love and warmth, as she looks down at the giggling bundle of energy in his arms.
"Hey, Munchkin," He smiles down at his beautiful daughter, "How've you been?"
888
#71: Write about a memory related to a holiday:
It used to be him enduring a silent and tense home. His mom slaving diligently over a stove to make his father's favorite meal. Secret smiles as she passed him bits of the meal before it was ready. The sound of the front door slamming as his father left to the nearest bar.
It used to be him bringing home a lukewarm meal from the restaurant where he makes just enough for them to be comfortable along with the help of their government check. His mom already passed out on the couch, volatile and unlike herself if he tried to wake her.
It used to be overtime at the precinct for as long as they could stand him, then off to the nearest homeless shelter. Cheery smiles from middle-aged women, always grateful for any help they could get. An evening call to his mother('s answering machine) before watching A Charlie Brown Christmas and drifting to sleep alone.
Sometimes it was being a guest at one of those homeless shelters when he was forced to keep his cover over the holiday.
Sometimes it was having a beer with a scumbag suspect to 'celebrate the season'.
Sometimes it was putting that scumbag in cuffs and behind bars.
Now it's taking her with him to the shelters. Bumping into her and bantering with her as they fill empty plates. Sitting on her couch eating ice cream and beer while watching It's A Wonderful Life.
Now it's them.
888
#247: Use all these words in a story: detective, cart, backseat of a car, toy car:
This was not how Detective Marty Deeks had pictured he'd go.
In a John McClane-esque fiery explosion while saving a bus-load of kids? Sure.
In a dramatic stand-off with a suspect, guns a-blazing when the clock tolled noon? Why not.
Surrounded by beautiful supermodels who all adored him? Most definitely.
'Bleeding out pathetically in the backseat of car while his partner tried to return enemy fire and simultaneously treat his gushing (and incredibly, incredibly painful) stomach wound' was not in his life plans.
"This is so not awesome." He shouts (or moans, whatever) over the unbelievably loud claps of gunfire.
"You're gonna be fine Deeks, don't freak out on me." She sounds breathless and pretty freaked out herself, but the detective is far too absorbed in his gaping bullet hole to really take note of her tone.
"Fine?" he parrots incredulously, "Are you kidding me! I saw Reservoir Dogs, okay? I know how scenes like this end, Kensi! Charming, handsome protagonist sacrifices himself heroically, only to die a sad, dramatic death in the back of a stupid toy Ferrari to give his partner the strength to finish off the bad guys and avenge said protagonist's death!"
Oh- did he forget to mention that? The vehicle he's half hanging out of makes pathetic "thunk" sounds as the enemy bullets shoot into (and sometimes through) the flimsy plastic and steel of the miniature toy car. The bright red plastic is really all that stands between his partner and the terrorists across from them in the small toy store.
"This is so ridiculous."
"First of all," she starts as she pulls back from firing and reloads her clip while also exchanging the scraps of fabric over his bullet hole with fresher ones and placing his hands over the wound again with a quiet 'keep pressure on it', "'Charming and handsome' protagonist definitely excludes you."
He lets out an indignant snort/moan of pain.
"Second of all, did you fail tenth grade English? The protagonist is the main good guy, and the main good guy never dies." She's looking him in the eye now, and he gets the feeling the last part of that sentence is more of an order than friendly banter.
"If anything," she pops over the hood of the car again and three claps of gunfire serve as a pause before the rest of her sentence, "you're the expendable partner who's really only there for comic relief."
"Gee, thanks."
He catches a cheeky grin addressed to him before she's turning away and he hears another clapclap from her gun.
Not much ammo left and they're still pinned down.
Looking up from his prone position, he can see through the (toy) car window the position of the offending terrorists. Taking a quick look around his position, he takes inventory of his surroundings and their available weapons. It's not much but-
A sharp hiss averts his attention to his partner who is knelt, barely covered, by the hood of the miniature car. A sharp line of red across her upper arm tells him she's been clipped, despite her fierce look and return fire.
Alright then, he decides. Time to go up in that fiery explosion he'd been talking about.
Jettisoning himself up and moving almost entirely off of inertia, he quickly collects the supplies he'll need and swipes up his discarded weapon, then makes his way stealthily to the left side of the room, unseen thanks to his partner's unintentional cover fire.
Speaking of her: the sudden lack of complaining seems to grab her attention as she glances over and sees a stark lack of the detective.
"Deeks!" she shouts over the machinegun fire from the other side of the store, but she quickly realizes she can't spot him from her position. She lets out a loud curse and fires back in hopes of distracting them from her partner's position, wherever that is.
Just when she really starts to freak out about the missing Deeks, she looks up in time to see what looks to be a tiny, pink and purple sparkly play-cart rolling towards the terrorists. She squints incredulously at the item as it rolls itself almost perfectly in the middle of the three terrorists, slowly drawing each of their attentions.
Is- Is that a teddy bear in the cart?
It is indeed a teddy bear. A giant white teddy bear with a red bowtie around its neck, a pleasant bear-grin on its face, and a pinless grenade taped to its hand.
Her eyes widen at the same time that all the terrorists simultaneously drop their weapons to find the nearest cover. Just as she's about to follow their example, she sees her partner emerge from the same spot that the brightly colored cart had, gun in hand aimed at the two terrorists nearest him. Trusting her partner's actions, she ignores her instincts to get the hell down, get the hell down now! and moves in towards the hostiles, covering his back and aiming her gun at the third attacker.
They cuff the suspects quickly enough, call in to update the status of their firefight, and start their wait for the others to come in and clean up the mess.
Kensi makes her way to her partner who is bleeding even more fiercely now, resting in a tiny Dora the Explorer chair. She realizes irately that everything in here is tiny and she hopes to never see another abnormally sized item again once they get out of here.
She holds up the stuffed white bear that had been their savior and flops it vaguely in his direction. "I take it this was your doing?" she asks incredulously.
He winces and grins at the same time, an action that's uniquely Deeks she thinks.
"You saved us with a Barbie shopping cart, a teddy bear, and a fake grenade?"
His cocky grin is only slightly diminished by the fact that his knees are in his ears because of his choice of tiny furniture and that he's now using a pink tutu to staunch his bullet wound. She can't help laughing.
"Yeah, yeah, this is all very funny to the person without a new vent in their gut. Can I go to the hospital now?" she never sees his pleased grin. Boy it takes a lot to make that girl laugh, he thinks.
She's still grinning when she bends over to help him up from the tiny chair. Ambulance sirens sound as she helps him to stand, "Sure, Mr. Pink, let's get you looked at."
They make their way out of the store as G and Sam pull up out front, ambulance just behind them. She laughs again as Deeks complains about being Mr. Pink, but mostly ignores him.
She also ignores the weird look G gives her when he sees the teddy bear she takes home with her that night.
That last one was so much ridiculous fun to write. 3 Hopefully it was just as much fun to read. I really utilized the action writing this time, which is a bad thing because I never write action. Haha Hopefully it wasn't too painful.
And about that third one, it was terribly painful to write, and I hope nothing like that ever happens, but well. I think on the pessimistic side of things I guess. Let's just say it's a horrible, depressing AU. :(
Also, there's a lot of simultaneously and incredulously doing things in this chapter. I'll have to cut back on that…
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
