A/N – This story takes place post-Neighbourhood Watch, and pre-Sans Voir, cause I don't know how they're going to start season 4. Natch.
Rating – T mainly, but some M probably later. I'll let you know. Mainly Densi stuff cause, ya know- - that stuffs gotta be hot, right?
Disclaimer – NCIS: Los Angeles is a TV show (but then, you already knew that) that I do not own. The criminals are my own. Also, my first actual fan fic, done to work through my writer's block on my ongoing projects, so try not to burn me at the stake for witchcraft if good, or heresy if rubbish. Any mistakes are my own; I'm English, so any mistakes about the nuances of American life/terms etc etc are a symptom of that. Updates will probably be sporadic.


Melinda Cartwright pressed her palms against the glass, and stared at the shoes with longing. Heels, cute little red straps. They were to die for. But, she already knew, with a price tag that was way out of her bracket. She'd first seen them two weeks ago, as she randomly browsed down Hollywood Blvd in her lunch break, and knew that they'd have to be hers.

And so, she'd scrapped and saved, cut back on meals, and drinks, and flirted with even the most repulsive customers at the restaurant for extra tips. Soon, she'd have enough money. And it'd all be totally worth it, because she would look absolutely amazing in them. They'd tighten her calves, and make her legs look like a million bucks. There would be no way in hell Kevin would be able to ignore her in those. She already knew exactly what dress would go with them-

There was a screech of tires, followed by shouts from the other shoppers around her. A white transit van skidded to a halt on the kerb a few stores down from her, the bright Los Angeles sunlight glaring off the windscreen. The side doors opened, and four men jumped out. Each one was clad in black leather, and their faces were covered with ski masks.

Panic swept the people around her, doubled when the men started to fire wildly into the air with rifles, the noise barking loud and causing a scream to rip from Melinda's throat. She dove for the ground, not even caring that she scuffed her wrists against the warm concrete, just desperate to get her body out of the way.

The men continued to fire, creating an ever increasing circle around them as people fled the gun fire, and shouted words between themselves. Not English, that much she knew, and it didn't sound like any of the admittedly little Spanish she remembered from High School.

They moved now, rushing forward, and grabbing a fifth man, tall, with tanned skin and shaggy brown hair. He struggled against them, fought them, but one of their number drive the butt of his rifle into the man's gut, exploding all the air there. He slumped against the arms that pinned his limbs, and the four men bundled him into the back of the van. Even before the door was fully closed, the driver hit the gas, and it lurched backwards, reversing onto the street, before being slipped into drive and rapidly dwindled from sight.

Silence returned swiftly, such a shocking absence after the noise and terror of only seconds before. Her heart still beat, and she could feel her whole body begin to shiver as the adrenaline began to seep from her system. Melinda took one last shocked glance over her shoulder, ready to rise-

And screamed again. On the ground beside her was another man, his dead eyes locked, unseeing, with her own. A single bullet hole, haloed in blood, sat ridged in the middle of his forehead.


"Are you trying to make me jealous?"

"No," she replied, her tone hushed, not even looking at him and choosing instead to continue her search. "I am just saying that they're trying to throw us off our game."

"You really think one of them is the handler?" Deeks sounded incredulous.

She looked over at him, to find her partner was engrossed in a stack of papers; bills no doubt. "Well, they are pushing the booze and asking us a whole lot of personal question."

"That is true, and every time we ask them something they do change the subject."

"Exactly," she said, with another quick glance at him. He gingerly pushed the drawer back into the wood cupboards, and then paused, eyes locked on her.

She turned to him, disbelief on her face. "Why are you staring at me? We're supposed to be married; husbands don't stare at their wives."

His head tilted to one side. "I'm just trying to figure out where you hid your gun."

Her mouth gaped, before she shut it and turned back to the task at hand. Was this really the time for this? "Can you do it without staring?"

"You are carrying, right?"

"Of course I am," she snapped. Did the man not know her?

"Then where are you-?" he began. But she'd heard something. Crap, she thought. They'recoming back. They would be found, away from the dining table, rifling through their host's paperwork, looking for clues that they might be related to the Russian sleeper agents that NCIS had been hunting. She needed to do something, and do it fast. I dropped an ear ring? We're just looking at some doohicky on your mantle piece? We're really undercover operatives and think you might be spies?

Without a moment's hesitation, she was on him, cupping Deeks' face in her hands and pulling herself up to press her lips against his. She could tell, by the flickering of his lashes against her cheek, and the slackness of his lips, that she'd caught him off guard. Any second now, Brett and Polina would be coming through the door to catch them in the act.

Any second now.

Now?

But no one came. It was weird. This isn't what happened, some small part of her thought. Slowly, she became aware that the room seemed to have faded into fine smoke, vanishing from her consciousness. And she was aware that their mouths were still together. She let out a soft moan before she even realised the heat within her was rising. It took Deeks only a few seconds to recover from his shock, and then he was leaning in too, almost melting into her. His hands came up, brushing her hair back from her face and resting on the back of her neck. It felt like sparks were flashing across her skin at the contact. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hands began to trail down, along the curve of her neck. It tickled slightly as his fingers slid their way down her sides, across her ribs, to her hips and only added to the shiver that raced him down her spine. When he lifted the back of her shirt, his hands slipping inside and pressing against the small of her back, it felt like her skin would burst into flame.

Then her hand was against his stomach, feeling the hard muscles there bunch and tense with sensation, and she smiled around his lips. The small opening of her lips was enough, and he dove forward onto her mouth, nibbling at her bottom lip. Her jaw slacked, and another moan escaped. At last, she opened her eyes; brown locking on blue. There was passion there, mingled with something else.

As she slipped her fingers into the loops of his jeans and pulled him closer, she realised what it was; hunger. Need. Pure, unadulterated, desire. She knew, because she felt it too. It coursed through every fibre of her being, sending shockwaves across every inch of her buzzing skin. She wanted to devour him. To taste him. She closed her eyes, and allowed it to happen. Allowed her guard to drop, allowed her inhibitions to melt away, replaced only by the sensation that she could never get enough of her body against his, that there would always be microscopic gaps between them no matter how hard she forced herself against him.

Her mouth opened further, tongue inching out, exploring, probing…

Kensi Marie Blye catapulted awake with a gasp.

Around her, the tangled sheets were soaked with sweat that still clung to her frame and slicked her hair to her scalp. Her heart raced, seemingly threatening to burst from her chest in protest, and her breath came laboured. And there was a familiar, but completely unwanted (and unjustified!), warmth spreading between her thighs.

"Oh God, no," she said.


"It's called travelling, G," said Agent Sam Hanna, as he followed his partner from the gym back into the bullpen. Well, what they called the bullpen anyway. NCIS Office of Special Projects in Los Angeles didn't look like the typical office of a specially chosen and highly trained group of Federal Agents. In fact, it was probably the furthest thing from that; housed within an old Spanish Mission, it was a large, open plan space, bathed in the rich glow of the Los Angeles sunshine. From the outside, it appeared to be long abandoned due to quake damage. The number of people not directly employed who had seen the inside could be counted on one hand.

"You're just bitter that I beat you," replied Callen. Just Callen.G. What that G stood for, like a lot of his past (though less than had been two years previously) was a mystery. "Besides, you said it yourself; Street Rules. Ain't no travelling on the Street."

"Uh-huh?" said the former Navy SEAL, sitting down at his desk. "No rules, you say? So what was to stop me curb stomping you in the middle of the court?"

"The paperwork Hetty would make you fill out."

Sam smiled at the quip. "Besides, what do you know about the street?"

"Oh, I can do street," said Callen, affronted.

"G, you're about the furthest thing from street there is. Everything about you screams 'White Collar'."

"Yeah, well everything about you screams 'Mathlete'."

Sam turned serious. "I told you, I was a Junior Math Olympian."

"Po-ta-to, po-tato."

Callen threw a grin at his partner, to take the sting out of his words. The other man, however, was looking over Callen's shoulder. "Will you look at that?"

Callen glanced behind him, as Kensi shambled her way to her desk and slumped down in her chair, a large box of food before her. Without even a greeting, she began to shovel it into her mouth.

"Wow, Kens, you look like crap," said Callen.

She gave him the dirtiest look in her arsenal in return.

"You feelin' alright?" asked Sam.

"I'm fine," mumbled Kensi around a mouthful of food, returning her attention to the meal.

"That why you're eating your feelings again?"

"I just didn't sleep well, is all," she replied.

"Anything you wanna share?" said Callen.

"Nope," she said.

Callen turned to Sam, and as one their faces lit up. "Guessing game," they cried in unison.

"Okay," began Callen. "Let's see. I'm gonna put money on you, having a date last night. And since you're not smiling, I'm guessing it didn't go well? Did he tell you he was gay?"

"No," said Kensi, not looking up.

"But it didn't go well?"

"There was no date," she clarified.

"Okay, Sam, you're up," said Callen, moving around the desk and taking his seat opposite the still-empty desk of their liaison.

Sam tented his fingers before him, observing the woman for a few moments intently. The big man's focus was unnerving, but Kensi felt determined not to let it get to her. She ignored him. Eventually, he spoke; "You found out that there was a pseudo-sequel to Titanic, and this is the aftermath of watching it?"

"No," she said.

"I really thought that would be it," said Callen. "There were roadworks outside your apartment, working all night?"

"No."

"They were all out of your favourite donuts?" tried Sam.

"No," she sighed.

"Top Model got cancelled?" This from Callen.

Kensi didn't even bother to respond to that one.

"Okay, my turn," said Sam. "You dreamt you were kissing Deeks?"

"What?" she sputtered, before she could contain herself. "No-I- but-!" She snorted with laughter "That is just- the least likely thing- ever to happen!"

"Good save," came a voice from behind them. She craned her neck, and there he stood, framed in the California sun that streamed through the open windows; Detective Marty Deeks, LAPD's liaison to NCIS, with his unruly hair, light blond scruff of a beard, an easy grin that seemed to cover half of his handsome face, and a tight green striped Tee clinging to shoulders that- What? Where had that last thought come from, and more importantly, where was it heading? She tried to keep the treacherous butterflies in the pit of her gut still.

"You know, sometimes I forget what a good undercover operative you are," he continued, "and then stuff like that happens to remind me. Was it a good dream?"

"More like a nightmare, Deeks. Which subject heading, I might add, kissing you would most certainly fall under."

"That's just 'cause you haven't tried the real deal," he countered.

I have, she almost said, before clamping her jaw shut, realising he'd led her right to a confession she didn't want to acknowledge in front of the others. How did he do that, every time? They'd fight, argue and bicker, (flirt?), and he'd say the one thing guaranteed to make her react and come off wrong.

I am too your type. The phrase rose, unabashed, to the front of her mind. She stomped it down.

"I just had a rough night, is all," she said instead. "Didn't sleep well."

"I could help with that, if you want, you know, a little massage, deep tissue. That sort of thing. Totally tasteful of course. I'll let you bring your own towel. It'll really help work out the kinks in your, ya know…" He trailed off, cocking his head to one side and ogling her.

"Down, Deeks," she warned him. His returned grin was shot through with enjoyment.

"You know," said Sam, "I think today's the day she's actually going to kill him."

"I'm just surprised he lasted this long," replied Callen.

Kensi turned her glare on the two senior agents; to their credit, they both met it with the same amused smile. "Don't you guys have anything better to do?" she snapped.

As if in answer, a high pitched shrill of a whistle reverberated through the space. As one, the team glanced up the single flight of stairs, to where Eric Beale stood by the railing, his customary board shorts and glasses in place.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned solemnly. "If you'd be so kind as to make your way into Ops-" He bowed, with a grand gesture with his arms to the room behind him.

"-crime is afoot," he finished.

"Saved by the bell, Kens," chuckled Callen.

"You ever notice how Eric says 'ladies' in plural?" said Sam to Callen, as the duo rose.

"That's because Deeks is here," came the reply.

"Hey, I resent that," called Deeks, voice layered with what Kensi knew to be faux-hurt.

"But do you deny it?" said Sam, through a smile.

The group headed upwards, Sam and Callen taking the stairs two at a time, Deeks following. Kensi hung back, trying to remove the flush from her cheeks. Her partner slowed, seeming to sense she wasn't right behind, and waited for her to catch up.

"So tell me more about this dream you didn't have about me," he said, his lopsided grin cracking his face and lighting up his features.

She sighed.