Category Archives: Character Appreciation Weeks 2014

Sam Appreciation Week — FanFic #1

Clowns to the Left of Me
By: Motsie of Atlantis

Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

–Stealers Wheel

2014

That’s how they always went in. Deeks, the team clown, was off on Sam’s left side. Callen, whose joking banter sometimes drove him to the brink of wanting to hit him, hard, was off on his right hand side. Of course he should be there, Sam had his back, was his right hand man, protecting his off side just like any partner would do. Sam was always in the middle, ready to go in either direction as needed. And coming up behind, was Kensi, or Nell while Kensi had been gone and even after she returned and still had to prove to Hetty that she was ready to come back to work after Afghanistan. This was the protected position, as the men looked at it, but the men would never say that to those two women. They explained it to the women that they were the only backup for the team. This was their normal way of approach. It was classic. It was safe. It worked.

Why in all the world didn’t they do it that way? It would have taken just a few more minutes to wait for Kensi and Deeks to get there and help them check out the drug sub. Sam could see that Callen was getting impatient. He no longer wanted to wait for the two junior members of the team, who were stuck in traffic or having another one of their arguments about what level “their thing” had gotten to that day, or if it even existed.

By now Callen had climbed up onto the sub and was looking down the conning tower into its bowels. Sam could see the look on his face, the one that said to him, “Come on, let’s do this.”

Sam, the voice of Callen’s conscience, yelled out to him, “G, don’t do it. We gotta wait for backup.”

But Callen, always having the tendency of going lone wolf, had already climbed up on top of the conning tower, looked at his partner and said, “What’s the worst that can happen? We find a couple of drug runners on board, and take them in?” and with his gun drawn, dropped down into the sub.

Sam had to scramble to catch up. It would just be their luck to find the sub occupied, and after a running gun battle in which Callen got shot one more time, he would have to explain to Granger, not Hetty, why he wasn’t there to protect him. Sam knew how Hetty would have acted, but Hetty was not longer there, having been recalled to Washington to give an account of her actions to her bosses. Everyone thought that it was all about the “White Ghost” incident in Afghanistan, but nobody, except maybe Granger, knew for certain. And since Granger had been put in charge of OSP, and Sam had already pissed the man off earlier, he didn’t want to have to go in front of him and explain his actions.

Dropping down into the sub’s control room, Sam was really surprised at how state of the art everything was. This was not something that was just cobbled together by a bunch of drug underlings. As the two agents worked themselves aft, Sam’s feelings about the situation got worse and worse. The sub was packed, not with drugs, but with ammonium nitrate, bags and bags of the stuff. In 1995, terrorists used that fertilizer to blow up the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City.
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Deeks Appreciation Week — FanFic #1

Got An Angel On My Shoulder
By: Motsie of Atlantis

Detective Marty Deeks woke up to the sound of his own screaming. He bolted to the bathroom, and just barely made it to the toilet. On his knees, with his head over the bowl, he was puking his guts out again. Most of the vomit had landed in the bowl, and he remembered flushing it down a couple of times. Marty knew he was going to have a big mess to clean up, but that would be later, when the demons were gone again. Kensi kept nagging him, whenever she was over to his place, telling him he was a typical male who never put the toilet seat down. He didn’t think the typical male was subjected to these types of demonic attacks in his sleep, and had to have as big a target as he could to avoid an even bigger midnight mess. Marty wrapped his arms around himself as the tears started to flow and he slowly turned over into a sitting position, not knowing which was causing his body to wrack more, the bile in his stomach, or the ache in his heart.

The images that flashed through his mind this evening were bad. It was scenario number three, as he rated them to the LAPD police psychologist. In this one, like most of the visions, he was again 11 years old, although his slim, frail looking body made people guess that he was at least two years younger. His father, Gordon John Brandel, drunk as he usually was in the evening, had ordered Marty to sit in a chair and watch while he taught his son how women were to be dealt with. Gordon dragged his mother to the center of the room and smacked the woman senseless with his fists and open hand, when he wasn’t taking another pull from the bottle of cheap whiskey he had by his side. When she no longer responded to his hitting her, he started cursing and swearing at her, wanting to punish her more. Marty had no idea what he was going to do next. Usually he became his father’s intended target when he was done hitting her.

Something in Gordon must have snapped, and Marty began to scream as he realized that his father was stomping his way down to his sister’s bedroom. He tried opening the door, but it was locked. That didn’t stop him. He broke it down and grabbed the screaming teenage girl and dragged her back to where Marty was still glued by fright to his chair.

“Shut up, boy,” Gordon snarled at him as he threw the girl to the floor. “This is the only thing a bitch is good for” as he ripped the clothes off of her body and proceeded to rape her there in front of him, She pounded him with her fists until he grabbed her hands and held them over her head. To silence her screams, he put his other hand over her mouth. When she bit him, he cursed at her again and dropped his hand to her neck, effectively cutting off her screams, but not realizing that he was cutting off her breathing too. When he was done, she didn’t move. He poked her several times, but there was no life left in her body.

Still filled with anger, Gordon’s eyes fell on Marty. “See what you made me do, boy?” He got up and went to the back bedroom, coming back with his shotgun. Marty knew he was going to kill him too. Gordon tripped over the bottle of whiskey he had left on the floor and fell to the ground, dropping the gun. Watching the liquid pour out onto the floor, he grabbed for it to rescue as much as he could. Marty grabbed for the shotgun and pointed it at his father.

“And what do you think you are gonna do with that, boy?” Gordon sneered.

 
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Kensi Appreciation Week — FanFic #2

Kensi Hates Disneyland
By: lovedanniruah

Do I have to?” whined Kensi. Sam, Callen, Deeks and her were driving to Disneyland for a team outing. That and it was Sam’s daughter’s birthday.

“Yes. I paid for beers last night, you said you owed me a favor.” said Sam.

Kensi groaned and slumped back into her seat.

“Maybe you have a-” started Deeks.

“Shut up, Deeks.” groaned Kensi.

“Kens, language.” said Callen. “Michelle and Abby are in the car behind us.”

“And?” she said.

“The windows are open.” said Callen.

Kensi really didn’t want to go to Disneyland. She planned on curling up on her couch and eating ice cream while watching TV.

“It’s only for a few hours.” she told herself. “You’ll be out of there soon.”

 
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Kensi Appreciation Week — FanFic #1

The Hopes and Fears of All the Years
By: Motsie of Atlantis

Donald Blye, a marine sergeant with the US Marine Rapid Response team in Rota, Spain met Julia as she was touring the Spanish wine country, learning to be a professional certified sommelier, a master wine taster. She wanted a job with one of the finer restaurants in New York or Washington or LA. She had her certification from the Italian Sommelier Association, and was now working on her certificate from the Association de la Sommellerie Internationale (ASI) in Paris.

They got married, and had one child, Kensi Marie Blye, born on August 20, 1982 making her a Leo, but just barely. Julia didn’t have much time to spend with her child, she was always off learning more about tending the vineyards and bringing the wine to the most exquisite taste possible.

Instead, she hired a series of wet nurses and nannies to care for the child in her absence. Rather than pay the going rate for women from the area to do this, she went to the poorer villages of Portugal and France and hired women to work for less than half what they should have been paid. These were the women who had a positive influence on Kensi’s life, teaching her to speak Portuguese and French in addition to her native English. Her mother’s influence was negligible, simply because of the fact she was never around.

That changed for the worse when Kensi turned 4 and started school. Her mother placed her in International Boarding School. Now Kensi was not only distanced from her mother, but she was also effectively cut off from her dad as well.

Kensi’s very first date was Bentley Atherton, when she was just seven years old and they both were at the International Boarding School. Bentley was an older man, he was two grades ahead of her in school, but the two of them were the same height, that’s why the teachers paired them up. He was the son of a maid and butler at the British embassy, and his parents were extremely particular with whom they allowed their children to associate. The children spent time together as they practiced for the cotillion, getting ready for the proper dances at the embassies to which they would never be invited. Kensi learned how to dance and curtsey, although she didn’t think she really needed to do that. At the cotillion they both had fun, danced a few times without stepping on the other one’s toes, ate the refreshments and didn’t spill anything. But when it came time for the spring hop, Bentley said that he didn’t want to go with Kensi ever again, He said her eyes were “weird”.

 
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Nell Appreciation Week — FanFic #2

Not far from the Tree
By: ncisnewbie

The tee-shirt’s picture showed a cartoon of a man on a surfboard, but two things distinguished this surfer from the traditional California surfer image. First, the waves measured, at most, six inches: wakes from the tourist boats passing under London’s Tower Bridge. Second, he wore the full red regalia and bearskin cap of a beefeater. Underneath, the caption read “Thames River Surf Association.”

The tee-shirt barely contained the paunch that had hunted down Eric Beale, now fifty years old. Eric grumbled as he vacuumed the large, formal living room of the Jones-Beale household. In one corner a music stand, overflowing with viola music, stood beside a baby grand piano. As he shut off the vacuum, he wiped the sweat from his brow, checked his phone and rolled his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then returned the call. “Hi, Sweetie. Sorry I missed your call.” He did not sound sorry.

“Right. I had time to vacuum before I had to get Barrett from Math Club. We’ll do…. You’re right, He’ll do homework ’til five-thirty five, then it’s off to fencing…. No, it’s Wednesday: it’s fencing. …We should be back by seven. During the homework, I should be able to get the lasagna in. And a couple bags of salad during fencing…Are you sure Renée doesn’t mind doing the Smithsonian ’til you’re done? We’ll hurry back. I’m sure she’ll be anxious to see her nephew.” As he talked, he grabbed a cloth lunch bag and filled it with a protein bar and banana.

Three hours later, dusk had come to a perfect Indian-summer day, complete with blue skies and crisp air perfumed by drying leaves. Eric pulled into the cul-de-sac and used the remote to open the garage. He parked his Dodge on his side of the driveway and plugged it in. Barrett roused from his near-sleep and uncoiled from his seat in the car. Tall and slender for his fourteen years, freckle-faced and tousle-haired like his father had been in Los Angeles, he had inherited auburn hair from his mother, the main physical feature he shared with her. Father and son negotiated their way between Nell’s Mercedes and his old Kia Soul. (“Better hang onto it. It’s big enough for projects, and for when I drive a bunch of kids.”)

Renée got hugs from each of the returnees, and Nell and Barrett shared a hug while Eric continued, “Hello, Renée. I’m so glad you could make it to Washington! Let me just pull the lasagna out, then we can eat in fifteen minutes, after it’s set.” As soon as he opened the oven, his face reddened. “What the Nell? Nell, I left a note to uncover it as soon as you got home so the top could brown!” He pulled the foil-shielded casserole from the oven. “Good grief, Nell! I bust my butt to get things set up so we can eat on time, get Barrett to bed at a decent hour and you can’t even do one thing?”

“As soon as I got in, I got a call from the embassy in Lithuania! Russia trouble again. Just uncover it now! Fifteen minutes ain’t gonna kill us, Beale!”

His shoulders slumped, he paused, and then he uncovered the lasagna and slid it back into the oven. Nell shook her head and steered her sister into the living room as Eric put on an apron and finished assembling the garlic bread. Once it was wrapped and in the oven, he poured himself a seltzer, took a breath, and went into the living room.

 
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