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He always knows when Kensi’s forgotten to charge her iPod, because she comes in humming something from America’s Top Forty instead of bopping along to the techno she loves so much.  And he’s right, of course, watching her plug the USB cord into the power adaptor under her desk so the techno will be ready when she goes to work out.

It’s when her humming turns to an idle whistle that he realizes just what song she’s got stuck in her head, and that’s when Deeks nearly chokes on his coffee.  It’s damn near impossible to go down a Los Angeles beach in the afternoon without hearing Flo Rida blasting from someone’s car, and “Blow My Whistle” has certainly been the song of choice, and he is absolutely positive that is what Kensi’s got stuck in her head. 

They exchange their usual morning pleasantries: he mocks her breakfast Little Debbie, she tells him he needs a haircut, he ogles her ass—all par for the course, but he can’t help it—his mind is already working overtime on just how he can turn this to his advantage, and part of it is going to be holding off on making any comments in public.  No, this needs to be one of their private verbal sparring matches, if for no other reason than there’s no one to overhear him and report him for sexual harassment, because between he and Kensi, it’s their thing, but not everyone else understands.

Now he just has to hope that either she stops humming or that Callen and Sam don’t recognize the song.  But the game’s afoot.


He works on his quip all morning, and comes up with a good one, he thinks, about Eric and the ear-piercing whistle the analyst uses to call them for a case, but it comes to mind about five seconds before said whistle nearly punctures his eardrums in actuality, so he holds it back.  Two hours later, he and Kensi are sitting in the car outside a non-descript house in the Los Angeles suburbs, watching, and she’s not speaking to him because, well, she caught him staring at her ass again, so he finally gives in and turns on the radio.

The timing could not be more perfect, because the song’s only barely starting the first verse, and almost immediately, he sees Kensi’s fingers start tapping against the steering wheel as the chorus kicks in, and he looks over at her, pasting the most incredulous look he can muster on his face.  “You cannot like this song.”

She seems to finally break out of her reverie, turning her head to look at him.  “What?”

“This song,” he says.  “You came into work humming it this morning.  And whistling.  And now you’re tapping along to it.  You cannot possibly like this song.”

He knows he’s got her.  She can go for the gut reaction and disagree with him, because that’s what they do, but that requires suppressing the women’s rights supporter he knows she is—at least somewhat—or she can start protesting that she hates the song, which will lead him into poking at her and annoying her over the song until she’s irritated with him over that, instead of over the fact that his eyes lingered too long on the way her jeans hugged her curves this morning. 

And trying to put all of that together—the fact that she’s mad he looked at her ass, her political viewpoint, the fact that they have these overly charged conversations without either of them feeling uncomfortable, the fact that she can and will kick his ass—he shakes his head, giving up trying to reconcile Kensi Blye’s notions of womanhood with any comfortable stereotype and waits to see what she’ll do.

And he’s deeply disappointed when she just rolls her eyes and turns back to look out the window.

“I mean,” he goes on, because really, he can’t stop now. “It’s a song about getting a blow job. Obviously, there has to be a euphemism for it, because ‘Suck my dick, baby,  dick, baby’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Her head turns slowly enough, and there’s enough menace in her eyes that he’s afraid for a minute she’s going to pull a Linda Blair and her head is going to go all the way around.  “Are you freaking serious?” she finally says.

“Well, as far as euphemisms go, it’s a pretty good one,” he muses.  He should be a little more careful right now, given that he sees murder in her eyes, but since when has he not rushed in where angels fear to tread?  “I mean, ‘give me a mouth hug’ wouldn’t really work either.  And you don’t have the bit about putting your lips together and blowing.  And you’d miss that really cool whistling bit, which, incidentally, was what really clued me in to the fact you’d been listening to it this morning—“

She jabs the on/off button to the radio with one finger and glares, opening her mouth to give him what he’s damned sure is going to be one hell of a scathingly harsh dressing down, but the gods of timing are once again in his favor today as it’s at that moment that their suspect pulls into the driveway.  Saved by the scumbag.  Still, score one, Deeks.


A little over twenty-four hours later, Deeks reflects that he’s glad he managed to talk Hetty into providing a little space for doggy day-care at OSP, because he hasn’t been home, and Monty would have been chewing the drapes by now.   Said space might be more like the boathouse, and doggy day-care might be more like he’s bribed one of the secretaries to let Monty out to use the bathroom, and providing might mean that he’s pretty sure Hetty knows that Monty’s there but hasn’t said anything because she really is a kind soul and has a soft spot in her heart for either Deeks or Monty, or she’s waiting to hold it over his head for something.

Callen’s voice in his ear tells him that he and Kensi need to get out on the dance floor of the busy club they’re in, since their target has just found his way there with a young lady who looks far too young for him.  Deeks isn’t thrilled with this plan, because he’s pretty sure any attempt he makes at dancing is going to resemble a monkey having a seizure, but he’s more than willing to sit back and watch Kensi dance, especially in the little black number she’s not so much wearing right now.

And then he’ll be damned if that song doesn’t start.

She can’t hit him.  It’s not his fault, and they’re working.

He keeps a straight face.  They’re working, so it’s serious Deeks time.  Not that he can’t work and be his normal charming self, but if he starts right now—

Except she’s whistling softly as she pulls him out to the dance floor, at least until Eric and Nell beg for mercy, since the whistling doesn’t come across the comms well.  But the wicked look in her eye remains, and she’s way too close and right on cue with the chorus, she purses her lips and blows a warm breath along the back of his neck.

And just like that, serious Deeks is gone, because every thought in his head has disappeared with all the blood that has suddenly flowed south because with the song and Kensi blowing warm air over his neck, he’s suddenly got an image of Kensi blowing his whistle and damn it, it is not fair what she’s doing right now because her mind is still on the mission, and his is on his cock, and how in the hell is he supposed to be watching their target when he’s got a hard on so painful he thinks he’s going to break the zipper to his jeans?

She’s smirking.  She’s tied up their game.

He knows better than to play at this kind of thing with her.


He changes the ringtone on his phone so every time she calls, it whistles the section from the song.  He goes two days before she finds out—he’s pretty sure Sam’s to blame for that, but he chalks another point up on his side of his mental scoreboard anyway.

The next day, there’s a package from Amazon sitting on his front porch.  He opens it to find—of all things—a vibrator.  The gift message says “Blow on this.”  He puts it away in his dresser and doesn’t sleep that night for his overactive imagination.

Right.  Tied again.


It finally ends a few weeks later when she shows up at his house with beer and pizza and takes over his couch and his television, but he got used to watching Tyra strut her stuff a while ago, because that’s a survival trait when being partnered with Kensi, so he doesn’t really mind.  She’s flipping channels, and he has to ask himself when music videos started showing up on television again, because there’s Flo Rida and a bunch of scantily clad women writhing about on a beach, and he really, really hates himself because every time he hears the song, he has an involuntary reaction to it that partly has something to do with the night in the club, and partly has something to do with what he’s sure is a psychological reaction that has to do with Kensi, that song, and the fact that his phone vibrates when it rings.  He’s pretty sure that either he ought to wipe out one of his points or give her an extra one, and he’s glad he’s not sitting on the couch next to her.

Not that it matters.  He forgets sometimes that she’s sneaky like a ninja, and he doesn’t realize she’s behind him until he feels that warm breath along the back of his neck again, and he gives up on his scoreboard because he really should have known that no matter how many points he might accumulate, eventually, Kensi Blye will just blow up the game.  “Kens, not fair,” he groans.

He feels her laugh more than he hears it, then the TV clicks off.  “What?” she asks, almost too innocently.  “Don’t want me to blow your whistle?”

That does it.  In one fluid motion, he turns around, grabs her by the elbows and spins her back around until she’s up against the wall, and he’s pressed against her.  Her mouth purses again into a small O in realization of just how badly his whistle wants handled by her, and while blowing his whistle sounds awfully good, he’s got other plans if she’s willing.


Later, he changes the ringtone on her phone so every time he calls, The Wanted start singing the chorus to “Glad You Came.”