Chapter Text
“Hey, Nell?”
“Mmmm?”
“Do something with this?”
Nell Jones, towel in hand, leans backwards from the bathroom sink to look out the door at Matt Lincoln, her roommate and sometimes boyfriend. His foot rests on a large box at the foot of their bed, an inquisitive expression on his handsome face, dark brown eyes mildly interested and mildly irritated. She flashes a grin. “This afternoon. For sure.”
Matt holds her gaze long enough to make the point of his doubt. This isn’t the first time she’s said she’d move the box.
“I will. Really.” She hopes she can. He doesn’t understand. Artist, only child, and sometime teacher, he still has two living parents. Where would he begin? She finishes drying her face, brushes her hair. She leans on the doorjamb and stares at the box without seeing it.
The box arrived two weeks ago from her foster mother, triggering a cascade of bad memories. Nell ran away from care at 14. Though she kept in sporadic touch with the woman who raised her, there was so much about the ten years in foster care she hated. In fairness, the things she hated were mostly to do with her family of origin and ten long years of forced visitation with the mother who never terminated parental rights. In prisons, halfway houses, a few treatment centers and at her grandmother’s house. Every visit was a chaotic constant scary reminder Nell was a possession, not a loved one.
She’d also hated several of her fellow foster care inmates who’d come to their home with all manner of violence and vitriol spilling from their every pore and found Nell a convenient target. Foster pet, kiss ass, shelter puppy, a few of the nicer names she’d been called. Nell was always small, sometimes scrawny. She consistently looks several years younger than reality. Very little about her appearance is accurate to who she is. She’s petite and pretty, also brilliant and occasionally mean. She’s poised and precise, yet she fights and improvises like lightning. Years of being picked on, followed by a couple years being homeless, taught her lots of odds and ends about getting by. She can be a consummate liar and thief who often hides in plain sight.
Matt knows her history. He’s as empathetic as anyone could be, she supposes. What he can’t know is how this unopened box kicks up musty feelings decaying at the bottom of her spirit like dead leaves. Every time she’s almost got acceptance in her grasp something happens to knock it loose. Who knows what will rear its ugly head when she opens the damn box. She doesn’t remember leaving anything behind she wanted. With the box was a note from her foster mother. Nell knows Cheryl is sick, has said she’d visit, hasn’t gone. The note is sweet. Cheryl is moving to hospice care now, she sent Nell things she found around the house belonging to Nell. Nell’s been more agitated about going to see Cheryl than opening the box.
Nell and Matt are both compulsively neat. An unopened packing box at the foot of the bed is a significant outlier. Nell sighs, throws caution to the wind, strides across the room and picks up her pocketknife.
The items in the box are all neatly wrapped in newsprint. Nell grins. Of course Cheryl still gets the daily Star Tribune. As she suspected, she’s unsettled. Everything neatly organized, packed and protected; soccer trophy, empty perfume diffuser bottles, a cat clock. Prods of recall; people pleaser, collector, eccentric. Nell works hard keeping remnants of a profoundly lonely childhood tucked far from her day to day thoughts. Yet, here they are, poking up from the past. The gem colored perfume diffusers are pretty, Nell smiles. She’s always loved the colored glass, whimsical shapes, the mesh atomizers with beads and tassels. She sits the tiny bottles on her dresser in a long line, smile widening to a grin.
She reckons to be halfway done with the excavation when she reaches an accordion folder, thick with paper. Cheryl was foster mom to more kids than Nell remembers. No way she kept all this nonsense for everyone. Sure enough, here are school papers, achievement certificates, report cards, class pictures. She peers at images of little folk – she being the smallest – everyone awkward looking, rumpled, obedient. A smaller envelope of snapshots shows a variety of tiny Nell, pigtails sticking out like antennae.
She doesn’t know these pictures. Where did they come from? Cheryl, then a young woman, on a swing set with Nell in a playground. An infant with Nell’s mother, Nell’s eyes flicker past her mother’s face, she wonders if the baby is her or her little brother. A snick of longing to know where he is flits across her shoulders. There are good reasons she left this stuff when she ran.
In a faded creased photo, toddler Nell and a teenaged boy huddle together in a recliner with a book. Instant full body recall, long hours curled in his arms when she first got to the foster home, him reading to her. With the sensation come memories of a cup of milk in the middle of the night, a hand on her back, ‘you’re okay devotchka moya.’ In that instant she recognizes the boy was Callen.
Her insides go cold. How? Her thoughts stutter. What she recalls clearly is Cheryl snatching the picture away ‘forget him Nell, he’s gone.’ Nell, nothing if not obedient, forgot. She shoves the picture under the mattress. Stupid four-year-old thing to do. She can’t make herself retrieve it. The contents of the box are suddenly and utterly worse than her worst imaginings. She sweeps the perfume bottles back in without ceremony, tosses the stack of paper on them and closes the box.
“Nell?” Matt calls from the other room. “You okay?” He arrives in the doorway, brows up.
“Absolutely fine.” She answers brightly. “Sorry, just trash. Bunch of glass bottles. Noisy.” She hops up, brushing imaginary dust from her pants. “This can go to Goodwill.” She closes the flaps of cardboard decisively, offering a smile.
“Need a hand?”
“No, thanks.”
Instead, Nell drives three apartment complexes down the street and tips the box into an incinerator.
~
In the wake of finding Callen in her past, Nell’s memory regurgitates all kinds of information she’d rather have left undisturbed. Her equilibrium tilts. The ancient hurt sears up through her at the least provocation. She feels disconnected from everyone and everything. She goes through all the motions of living with Matt. He suspects something’s up, but hasn’t asked. It was a mistake to move in with him six months ago. Accustomed as he is to the secrecy surrounding her jobs, past and present, he accommodates her increased reserve. He probably appreciates it in some ways. They’ve been drifting apart since she arrived.
Nell and Matt are friends, have been since they met. He’s smart and funny, really cute in a lean sort of way. His work illustrating comics is brilliant, witty, literate and tragic, remarkably steady for an artist. It’s easy enough to be with him because he doesn’t actually care what she does. They like the same people, events, food. She has no family, no past, no career she can discuss with him. They’ve tried to have a romance. They make sense together on paper. Not so much in person. She’s always planning on either working it out or moving on. But, his aloofness is a good match for the realities of her life, if not for her temperament. That she can’t disclose much to him for one reason or another means he doesn’t have to defend himself against her or commit.
Work gets increasingly difficult. She avoids Callen. Thinking of him sends shivers down her spine, not to mention hearing his voice, seeing him. He’d been the first person who ever took care of her who didn’t have to or get paid. Now she knows it was him, she can’t see how she missed those eyes. She’d kept the picture under her pillow until Cheryl took it away. Hoped he’d come back. He didn’t. She talked to Nate last week and when he recovered from the surprise, he said she has to tell Callen. Or at least tell Hetty. Nell doesn’t want to talk to any of them. She tightens her focus on work, increases her hours, wonders how to put the past back where it came from.
~o~
This evening she reckons if she doesn’t get the picture out from under the mattress, she’ll have to start sleeping on the couch. Like the princess and the pea, she lies in bed thinking she can feel the contours of the pictures edges all night. Tonight’s the night. Matt, at the art opening of a friend, won’t be home until the wee hours. She needs to tell Callen and she needs to get rid of the damn picture. So be it. Perhaps she can do both at once. Standing in the kitchen she extracts her phone and makes the call.
Nell’s name on his caller ID gives Callen pause. She hasn’t called him outside of work in two years. “Nell?” It can’t be work. He’s in the OSP gym and the building is quiet as a tomb.
“Hi. I’m sorry to call like this. I, uh, need to see you.”
He doesn’t have an answer. She hasn’t been willing to look at him in three weeks.
“I know.” She says into his silence. “It’s important.”
“Ok. I’m at the gym. Need to shower and change.”
“Starbucks on the corner?” She asks. The coffee shop is a half block from OSP and hosts most of the team’s midday non-work conversation.
“Sure.”Callen looks at the phone, an uneasy discomfort rumbling in his chest. He gets cleaned up and to the corner store in quick time.
Nell waits at a café table outside, dressed down to a white t-shirt and jeans, canvas high tops adorned with red ribbons instead of laces make the outfit singularly Nell. She’s also wearing a straw fedora and glasses. He often doesn’t recognize her out in the real world. The evening light is warm red and orange as the sun sets and she looks especially pretty there, all solemn eyes.
He drops into a chair. “What’s going on?” She puts her hand on the table, pushes a piece of paper, a photograph to him. Callen glances between her, the picture, and back again. The hat brim and sheaves of dark mahogany hair shade part of her face. Her eyes are on the back of her hand. The muscles in his jaw bunch. He picks up the photo. Of him from way back in foster care. “Where’d you…” And a kid. The little girl from his last foster placement. His eyes flicker between the picture and Nell again. Nell. “It was you.”
“And you.” Her gold hazel eyes look right at him for the first time in weeks. The gesture isn’t reassuring. Turbulent emotions simmer behind her eyes, for a long moment he thinks she’s going to cry or hit him, then abruptly she stands and walks off. Callen holds onto the instinct to pursue.
He watches her retreating back while she walks to her car. He can replay the night she arrived at the foster home. A furious mite of kid with such a horrible haircut she looked like moths had been at her. Skinny and dirty, with flashing eyes of maple colored gold. He’d observed idly from his vantage on the sofa while the caseworker walked her in to living room. The kid was clutching, of all things, a coffee can. Of course, the other new arrival chose the exact moment to slide into a tantrum. The foster mom, Cheryl, had her hands full. Nice lady.
G was sixteen and in his 37th placement. He read all the body language and chose to go to where the little one stood stoically clutching the can, staring at the 12 year old screaming on the floor. Let the adults manage the attention seeker. ‘Come on’ he’d swung the kid into his arms, taking her off to the kitchen, washing her face, giving her a cup of milk, reading her one of the younger kid’s books. Once everything was settled she’d been trundled off with Cheryl. The next day she’d crept up with a book in her arms nearly as big as she was asking him to read. Anna Karenina. His first Tolstoy. She can’t have had the slightest idea.
Nell sits, head resting on the steering wheel, not 40 feet away. He goes to the car and leans on the doorframe. He takes a deep breath and opens her door. He rests on his haunches beside her. When she glances at him he sees the fiery maple gold flash he should’ve recognized long ago. He sighs. Had he ever known her name? He’d simply referred to her with his father’s pet name for his sister. Cheryl called her munchkin. “Come on.” He touches her hand. Those eyes flash at him again. He nods. He takes her hand, tugs her from the car, closes the door. They walk back to the table.
Callen buys two tall cups of tea. They sit outside the shop, not looking at each other. “How long have you had that?” He asks.
“Depends how you count.” She says. “Cheryl sent it a couple of weeks ago. I had no idea that was you. Before. She must’ve forgotten taking it away from me a couple weeks after you left.”
Explains why she’s not looking at him. You left, she said. The words settle against him. His entire life people have left him. He’s never considered anyone he passed during foster care people. He left. Her. “I’m sorry.” He says.
Nell swipes at her face. “Just brings everything back to the surface. Yuck.”
“Doesn’t ever completely go.” He sifts through new realization of what her life’s been. More like his than not, he’d wager. Until this moment he’d had a vision of vanilla Midwestern wholesomeness. There’s always been an interesting wallflower quality to her that doesn’t match her beauty and smarts. It matches fostered perfectly.
“No. I guess not. Nate says I ought to tell you, so…” She shakes her head, tucks hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure about this. Us. You.” She gestures to the picture. “Him.” She closes her eyes for a second then looks at him.
“I didn’t leave you.”
“I know.”
G’s brows rise.
“I know.” She repeats. “But, it felt like… I was four. I know. Now.”
His eyes narrow. Knowing has never been enough for him. He knows his parents didn’t leave him. He was still left.
“You were a kid, too.” She says.
G leans forward. “Nell. Listen. We can make this okay. It’ll… it’ll take some time. But, this will be fine.”
Her mouth tightens, lips pursed. Her mouth curls up at the corner in a half smile. “You’re a bit of a bullshitter, you know.”
He grins. “Yeah, can be.” He allows. “How long were you with Cheryl?”
“Ten years.”
They swap a few stories about Cheryl, school. G tells her about running, jail, meeting Hetty. Nell tells him about running, homeless, Stanford.
“Hang on. You went to high school while you were homeless and then graduated early and went to college?” G’s not surprised, but he’s amused. “Should’ve predicted it, I guess. You got me started on Russian literature. Do you remember?”
"You were nice to me when nobody else had been. I was little. I thought it meant something it doesn't. Didn't. I'm grateful though."
G feels he should've known all of this somehow. He's been carefully avoiding the image on the table between them. Now his eyes stray back, there is, he sees, contentment on the faces that must've been exceedingly rare for both of them.
"I thought you must be dead or in jail. Foster kids have a rough path. We've usually reached our use by date by 35.” She says.
"I've been close on both counts. S’not a bad guess.”
Her eyes come to his. “This is very strange and probably doesn’t mean anything. Getting that was a shock.” She gestures to the picture. “It’s hard suddenly knowing it was you.” She gathers herself to leave. She’s got her empty cup in her hand with a napkin. “I should go. Look, for what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re alive and doing well. I guess I’ll see you Monday morning?”
He nods. She stands, drops her trash in the can by the curb, moves to get in her car. When she looks back their eyes catch and hold. A new thread of recognition thickens between them. Nell breaks the gaze, climbs in the car and drives away. G watches the taillights take the corner. He returns his attention to the photograph she’s left on the table with him. Free to examine it at his leisure, he lingers over the details. His recall of the atmosphere in that house is visceral, a weird balance of suspended welcome, with a side of trepidation. Whatever book he’s reading to her, it’s thick and heavy. She can’t have understood much of what she heard. But she knew there was peace in the words, the imaginary worlds.
Three years ago when Marty first joined the team, they’d all put in considerable time socializing. In the mix of drinks, food and hours of conversation, G and Nell gravitated toward one another. It seemed a bad idea to date a coworker, a young one at that. He’d not been in any shape to have anything romantic with anyone anyway. He’d been surprised by the attraction with Nell. He easily put the brakes on, eased back from whatever was coalescing between them. He trails a finger over her face. He wants to replicate the ease in her expression.
He drinks the last of his tea on the way back to OSP. Once home he puts the picture on the mantle beside the only picture he has of his parents together, nestled amongst pictures of Sam’s kids. He looks at it there for a long moment, still adjusting to this shift of Nell from one place in his life to another.
He drifts back to his recliner. His usual evening reading is dogged by thoughts of Nell. He’s been reading at night as long as he can recall. It’s excellent escapism. Though, not tonight. After a half hour of trying he gives up on the book and lapses into sitting and thinking. Looking back, it occurs to him Cheryl must’ve been a retired social worker. She took in the hardest kids with compassion and laughter. How on earth had a four year old ended up there? How had he not recalled that house as his first recliner?
~o~
Taking action feels better. Not good, exactly, but better. Nell submerges herself in work. Few things absorb her full attention like analyzing data, interesting data. Data that solves problems. Law enforcement has no shortage of such, so it’s easy for her to pick two new projects to start in addition to her day job and training.
Forced to stitch this Callen she knows now to fragments of memory – the reassuring grip of warm fingers, a chuckle only she garnered, devotchka moya – robs her of solace that was already as fragile as spider’s silk.
Matt works at home on a much anticipated comic by a well known popular author. His office had humble beginnings as a second bedroom, thoroughly converted into an office/studio with both the analogue easel as well as the massive digital illustration platform on a souped up mac. Nell’s home office is her laptop on the bed. They both work into the nights to a classic rock soundtrack.
OSP is another matter entirely. Just as Nell eases back into her normal behavior around Callen, he becomes noticeably hyper aware of her. At first she thinks she’s imagining his eyes on her, but she soon realizes he’s watching her closely. His attention narrowed on her once before for a short time a couple years ago when something romantic nearly happened. He’s not a subtle man. His current attention isn’t either romantic or platonic, rather something between.
The change from Nell avoiding Callen to Callen studying Nell confuses the team. Hetty doesn’t help when she begins mixing up partner assignments. Today, Marty works with an LAPD detective at a crime scene, Kensi and Sam interview witnesses and relatives, while Callen works surveillance with Eric. Meanwhile Nell and Granger work the web, searching through intel trying to locate a suspect who’s in the wind. Tech ops is crowded with four of them working full out and Hetty lurking at the conference table editorializing.
The bustle of the case does make the day whip past. Still, Nell senses Callen at her back every moment. Mid-afternoon her flag on their suspect’s passport pays off when it hits at Sea-Tac. Hetty heads out to talk the situation over with Vance and SecNav. Granger grabs Callen for the trip to Seattle, while Nell sends Homeland agents over to hold the suspect. Callen’s abrupt departure from Nell’s space is physical relief like shedding a heavy coat.
In the lull, Eric spins in his chair. “What the hell is up with you and Callen?”
Nell shrugs. “Nothing. We’ve got a… just an awkward thing. It’ll work itself out.”
His brows are up. “That’s what I thought a couple weeks ago.”
She cuts him a look that sends him back to work.
Without looking at her Eric continues. "Did you have a fight about something?"
"No."
"Misunderstanding?"
"Stop it."
"Inquiring minds want to know. Sam already tried to get it out of Callen."
"Mmmm."
"Well, whatever it is, it's making everyone a little uncomfortable. "
"That's unfortunate." Nell’s fingers fly over her keyboard, her eyes remain on her screen. “I’m sure everyone will adjust and accommodate.” Her tone sharpens on the noun.
Socially awkward as he is, Eric is nothing if not an excellent and experienced Nell wrangler. Gaging they have at least another half hour before more mayhem ensues, he makes a calculated shift in tactics. Turning his chair to face her, he rolls until his knees touch her skirt. “I don’t like seeing you unhappy. I’m not always sure you’d ask. But if there’s anything I can do to help, I want to do it.”
“Eric.” The edge is gone from her voice.
He puts a hand on her arm, effectively stopping her work. “This is probably a terrible time and place.” He says. “Come over tonight? We can amp up Code of Honor. Talk. Yes?”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t even glance at him.
“Milo will make cheese puffs.” Eric offers. His rumpled, older, LAPD homicide detective boyfriend is the best Nell wrangler possible. Milo looks and often acts like the human variation of a grizzly. In addition, he’s an amazing chef and the perfect confidant. Milo’s cheese puffs are a pastry delight of cheese and sausage he only makes on demand for Nell.
“Cheating.” Nell grumbles.
“You bet.” Eric confirms, moving back to his workstation.
~
Nell watches Eric and Milo putter around their massive kitchen from the vantage of one of her favorite spots in the entire world, the hanging basket chair in the kitchen bay. Early evening sun fills the space with rosy warmth, augmented by the smell of cheesy wonderfulness coming from one oven and roasting duck in another oven. The chair swings gently. Blues plays softly on the sound system, filtering through the house. Eric and Milo have the homiest home she’s experienced.
Milo brings her a glass of wine. “Word on the street is you’re bitterly unhappy and one G Callen is the cause. Want me to go beat the shit out of him?”
Nell almost spits out her first sip of the crisp white wine. “No.” She laughs. “I don’t. And he’s not the cause of anything. Who’ve you been listening to?” She shoots Eric a look. “I’m not unhappy.”
Eric snorts. Milo grins. “I’ve been listening to Eric, Marty and Kensi. And if you’re happy, then I’m delicate. I’m not buying it, sunshine. What’s happened?”
Without a backwards thought, Nell tells them everything. True to their natures, Eric analyzes and Milo fixes. Eric immediately gets all the layers of complication surrounding how Nell and Callen feel about each other, newly stirred by the revelation of their shared past. Milo begins sorting.
“Well, you gotta go see Cheryl, kiddo. There’s no excuse not to. Not her fault you and Callen ended up in the same corner of the world. I’m sure she’d love to see you. And you’ll hate yourself if she dies before you get around to her.” Milo decides. “I know she’s had probably a million fosters over the years, but you’re the only one she had for ten years, who she thinks of as hers.
“That’s only because bio-mom never gave up rights or got sober.” Nell complains.
“Nonsense. Cheryl didn’t have to keep you.” Milo says. “Then. If you’re this twisted up about Callen, you aren’t actually with wonder boy.” His nickname for Matt. “You should’ve broken up with him last fall when he was such a dick. Now, you need to break up with him because you’re being a dick.” Milo points a huge stubby finger at her. “I’m sure you haven’t said boo to him about any of this.”
“I know. I know.” Nell admits. “But I don’t have anywhere to go. I’d have to find a place.”
This causes Milo to level an exasperated glance at Eric. “Uh huh. Sure. Stop it. Come here. Plenty of space. Lots of time.” Milo gets to his feet and goes to an oven where he bastes, sweet smelling steam rolling up to the ceiling and making Nell’s mouth water. “And don’t argue, please.” He continues. “You people without parents, honestly.” He grumbles. “No idea how to take care of yourselves. Constantly complaining and objecting. Always at loose ends.” He moves from the oven to the refrigerator, where he retrieves salad fixings. His voice is filled with affection. Nell has no idea how she would explain the comfort Milo is able to put into the grouchiest sentiments. Eric is a lucky man.
~o~
“D’you have a minute?” Nell stops in Hetty’s door.
Hetty waves her in. “I certainly do, have a seat.”
Nell perches on the edge of a chair in front of Hetty’s desk. “My foster mom is ill. She recently sent me some of my belongings. It turns out she was also Agent Callen’s last placement. She sent me a photo of the two of us.” Nell’s eyes narrow slightly. “Is there something… did you know anything about that?” In her senior year at Stanford, Nell discovered Hetty was the benefactor who created Nell’s scholarship, hand picked Nell from the entering class of applicants to sponsor.
Hetty considers Nell over her glasses. “I knew you ran from the same foster home he did. I did not know you were both there at the same time.” Hetty steeples her hands on the desk. “Remarkable.”
Nell always chooses to believe Hetty. She’s also aware it’s always a choice. As far as Nell can tell, Hetty doesn’t lie to her. But, Hetty is also very selective about what truth she shares. Nell suppresses a sigh, folds her lips against a protest. She swallows down several questions, nods, stands.
“Nell.”
Nell stops.
“Things have a way of working themselves out. Keep your head up.”
Nell blinks. “I will.” She hesitates at the door and looks back. Hetty’s warm brown gaze greets her. “My foster mom is dying. I’d like to take some time to visit her.”
“Of course.”
Nell heads back upstairs to tech ops. That was easier than she’d feared. Fine, in fact. As was talking to Matt. Some tiny part of her would’ve liked to have a fight with him or at least feel he was surprised by her defection. The rest of her is content with his acknowledgement they aren’t each other’s one and only. They’d fit all of her belongings into her car neatly, wished each other well and she’d left. She’s comfortably moved into Eric and Milo’s guest suite and she’ll fly up to Chicago this weekend and say good-bye to Cheryl. Hetty is always right. Things will work themselves out.
She settles in at her workstation and pulls up her email. A small voice in the back of her head recalls a line from the movie Walk The Line wherein Johnny tells June things will work out and she replies “No, John. Things do not work out. People work things out for you.”
~o~
Four more days of work before her little vacation. Nell stays busy and cautiously routine. From outside she’s sure OSP seems the hub of mysterious critical action. There’s a shocking amount of down time. Paperwork days outnumber the nation threatening mayhem by easily three to one. Research, gathering intel, coordinating with the rest of NCIS, the Navy and Homeland all takes a lot of time and effort. Another chunk of time is all about training, staying ready. Gym, shooting range.
Nell puts in her time with all the various activities of field agent practice. Otherwise she’s available to Homeland and NSA for intel analysis. That third of her work isn’t transparent to her team outside Hetty and Granger. Of course, Eric can see she’s intensely busy when there’s no case. He knows better than prying. When anything classified is up, she moves to the boathouse, where she has a workstation fully integrated with NSA.
Today is relatively quiet, although there’s a dead Navy Seal downtown that may become work. At the moment it looks like a suicide they can work from their desks. Nell keeps an eye on LAPD communication on the case while prepping a briefing to SecNav about the unrest in Yemen. She’s unprepared for Callen to slouch into the chair next to her workstation, hands tented speculatively. “Hetty says you’re going to Chicago?”
Nell glances reflexively at the stairs, then the time. “Excuse me?” She bids for a moment to think.
“I'd like to go with you.”
“No.” None of his business. Nell stands. “Of course not.”
“Why not?” He’s following her.
“Why?” She counters, maneuvering around him to the stairs.
“To see Cheryl. Clarify some things for myself. Figure out how to fix this with us.” Callen’s tone is matter of fact. Behind him, Eric’s eyebrows have danced up to the ceiling and his mouth is pressed tight against what might be a laugh.
“There’s nothing to fix.” Nell assures him, trotting down the stairs. If she thought arriving in the bullpen would be an improvement over tech ops, the alert faces of the rest of the team put an end to hopes. She turns toward the gym, Callen at her side.
In the hallway, Nell stops. “Why is this happening?” She asks so one in particular.
Callen shrugs. “I want us to keep working together, at least as well as we were a month ago. Ignoring how nuts it is I know you doesn’t work. You ignoring me doesn’t work.” He spreads his hands between them. The same hands that taught her to recognize chess pieces – this is a king, this is a rook. “Come on, Nell. We just found out we knew each other as kids. We could be celebrating the connection, happy we found each other. Instead, you’re angry with me and I don’t know why.”
“You want to know why? I can tell you why. For six months, I thought you took care of me because you wanted to, not because you had to or because the state paid you to. That was a first for me. Turned out I was wrong. Little kids are wrong all the time. Nothing special. I got over it. I certainly never let anyone…” She halts. None of his business. She swallows. “I am not angry with you. I’m angry with the universe for shoving you back into my life. And, no I don’t want us to work together. Or anything. I don’t need the reminders. So there’s nothing for you to fix.” She hears her voice break. Damn it. She sucks in a breath. “Whatever needs fixing, I will fix. No going with me anywhere.”
“How?” He asks. “How will you fix this?”
Her sigh brims with frustration. “I’ll get another job. I’ll make another life.” I’ll run, she thinks. She ducks past him and into the gym. Through the gym, she takes the back stairs out into the sunshine and across the lawn to the boathouse. She can finish what she was doing up in the boathouse tech ops.
Callen watches her go. Getting to be a familiar sight. What the hell. He wrestles with conflicting needs to follow her and analyze what she just said. Clearly he’s not welcome on her heels. He stands still, replaying the past two minutes of smoldering eyes, cheeks growing pink with indignation. Not a side of Nell he’s ever seen. Unless you count what he hadn’t known he’d seen 26 years ago. He closes his eyes. Somehow he has to put these two people together. She’s not different, she’s what… she’s a bit masked, she’s contained. ‘Because you wanted to…’ Christ what does that even mean?
Callen has experienced more than one lifetime’s worth of loss. He’s dealt with it through anger, by hiding, by becoming other people, by honing himself into a weapon. He’s managed more instances of not being wanted than he cares to consider. He sighs. He turns and begins walking slowly back to his desk. Despite everything, the first five years of his life were filled with love and light and laughter. If he was the first person who ever wanted to take care of Nell it means she hadn’t had that. He knows exactly what she means by people paid to take care of her. He hated the disingenuous nature of each and every one of those relationships. He fears he knows the end of the sentence she cut off, too, she never let anyone… else take care of her.
He bypasses the bullpen and three sets of curious eyes. “Hetty?” He stops in Hetty’s door, seeing Hetty and Granger in conversation. They both look up at his interruption. He shakes his head. “Later.” He backs out, annoyed. He pivots into Sam, who catches him neatly by the upper arms. “Sorry.”
“What happened? What did you do to Nell?” Sam asks.
Why does everyone seem to think he’s the culprit? He scowls. Sam raises his hands in a gesture of surrender and moves aside. Callen brushes past. He needs a break. He needs to drive.
Comfortably behind the wheel of his Mercedes, Callen points the car at the highway, west. He clears his mind of irritation and begins sorting information. Before Nell, he was the best analyst on the team. It occurs to him she’s a superstar at what she does for the same reason he is. Survival, plain and simple. If you are four years old and fending for yourself you become crazy good at reading people and situations. You learn how to run, how to get low and stay low. You vanish. Then you learn how to hunt. Callen has watched Nell hunt suspects through space and time, using technology, history, street smarts, book smarts and the willingness to slither around any barrier, real or imagined. He’s seen her duck behind brilliance and humor, staying just out of sight.
He parks at the beach, heading down past the dunes to the sand. The wind is high, waves big. Lots of folks have boards out on the surf. Between the gulls, pipers and people, it’s pleasantly noisy and cheerful. He walks. Six months, twenty six years ago, is a tiny target for his memory. He anchors his recollection to Nell’s arrival at Cheryl’s house. A small, angry face. Huge eyes, taking him in, measuring and finding him acceptable. And why not? There was no one else there. Not really. Survival is a funny thing. He sighs.
She had very quiet nightmares, quaking in her sleep without even waking. Had someone threatened her into sleep? He didn’t sleep at all, for much the same reasons, he imagines. When the tears began he’d get milk, maybe a sandwich; the kid didn’t eat during mealtimes, scrounging food when no one noticed. He’d wake her up gently, feed her, rub her back, talk to her in Russian about his mother of all things, ease her back into sleep. He stops walking, caught in the recall, rests his hands on his knees and stares at the sand beneath his feet. She’d go to sleep holding onto the hem of his t-shirt. The nausea surprises him. It’s been a long time since his stomach got away from him. He tamps down the lurch of sorrow. She’s about six steps from running and for some reason it’s of urgent importance to him.
His phone vibrates and Hetty appears onscreen. “Mr. Callen, can I assume Miss Jones informed you of your prior acquaintance?”
Well, there’s one way to look at it, G smiles. “She did.”
“Are you well?”
“I don’t know.” He answers honestly. He has no idea. “She’s…” He trails off.
“You wanted to speak with me earlier.” Hetty prompts.
“Yeah. I don’t know what to do with this, this, damn it. I asked to go with her to Chicago to visit Cheryl. Didn’t go so well.”
Hetty’s brows rise. “I imagine not.” She doesn’t ask him what he was thinking. At least not out loud. “A bit presumptuous, I expect.” She finally allows.
“Yeah, I got that.” He chuffs. “I need to do something. I just don’t know what.”
“Why?”
Hetty’s question stops him. He blinks. “Hetty, she’s unhappy.” There’s a plaintive note in his voice he doesn’t like. “She’s leaving. She says she’s going to get another job. She doesn’t want to work with me.”
“I’m aware. Mr. Callen, you are not her supervisor nor are you her friend. Why do you feel the need to do anything?”
Hetty’s comments slice through him, her question nettles. G knows she’s provoking him to think harder about the situation, but he’d appreciate some more straightforward help. He sighs. Hetty’s smile widens. A moment longer, just for emphasis he’s sure, and Hetty lets him off the hook. “Return to work, please. You’re required to meet Mr. Hanna at a crime scene, the details are on your phone. We’ll discuss the other matter this evening over a glass of whiskey.” She’s gone.
The crime scene is a mess and Callen and Sam have their hands full with two dead marines, three dead young women, LAPD, media and Homeland. The confusion about whether the trafficking included espionage or if perhaps a shore leave went horribly awry keeps the team busy for the rest of the day and a large part of the evening. It’s late before Hetty declares whatever happened is no longer happening and they can break for the night.
Sam keeps pace with G on the way toward their cars. When they’re out of earshot of the crime scene team he touches G’s arm. “Hey.”
They stop and face each other. Sam raises his eyebrows and waits. G glares, defiance first to surface on his face. Sam tilts his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
G shrugs, relaxes his stance. “I just found out… Nell found... There’s a…”
“Wow.” Sam comments on G’s inarticulateness. “Must be serious. We all know you two were in foster care together and you left her. What just happened? Skip to this morning.”
“I didn’t leave anyone.” G protests. He hesitates. “Exactly. I left foster care.”
“G, she was Maya’s age. What else was she gonna think?” Sam’s youngest is almost five. “You know how Maya feels about you. You wouldn’t go off and leave her.”
True. Maya loves her Uncle G and the sentiment is returned. “I was sixteen.”
“What would a four year old know from sixteen? I didn’t say you did anything wrong. Let up, man. I’m just trying to see it from her point of view for a minute.” Sam explains. “What d’you do this morning?”
“The foster mom is sick and Nell’s going to visit her. I asked to go.”
Sam shakes his head. “Let me guess. She said no.”
“She said no.”
“That put you in a pout?”
“Can I please get a break?” G’s frustration edges his voice. “She said she doesn’t want to work with me. She says she’s leaving, Sam. I have this feeling she’s leaving the team because of something I did twenty-six years ago. Something I can’t undo.”
“G, it’s possible whatever’s going on with her now has nothing to do with you. She’s dealing with her past as best she can. You know what it’s like. Let her be. Let yourself be, man.” Sam clapped G on the shoulder. “Come have dinner at the house. “
G weighs the evening talking to Hetty against dinner with the family. The lure of the girls is always powerful and he inclines his head. “Dinner sounds great.”
~o~
Hetty gazes over the team. “We have a request from Homeland to assist infiltrating an extensive Eastern European arms market operating out of Russia and the US. Homeland has invested a great deal of surveillance, and primed the potential for engaging directly with the cartel. Our friend Arkady Kolcheck has been enlisted to make contact, which he has done. Mr. Kolcheck is willing to pursue the operation further, but not without help.”
“He wants G.” Sam says.
“He does.” Owen Granger says. “We’re looking at a possibly long term undercover op, likely to take two of you off the grid for a matter of months. Director Vance is assigning a new agent to our team and I’ll be available.”
Marty and Kensi exchange glances. One of them is bound to be assigned the probie. Which puts one of them with Granger. They’re both looking unhappy. Callen looks resigned and Sam beings to sort out smoothing over the absence with Michelle.
Nell snags the attention of the group. “Mr. Kolcheck has initiated contact with a Karsten Milovich.” A picture pops up on the plasma screen. “Wanted by Interpol for arms and human trafficking. Milovich is a middle man for the Sarloff syndicate operating out of St. Petersburg.” Details about known activities of Milovich and the syndicate scroll up. Callen steps forward to read.
Hetty continues. “Mr. Kolcheck has been invited to meet with Sarloff to discuss a preliminary small weapons sale. We have an opportunity to get a great deal of information about the extent of the syndicate, its personnel and carrying capacity. Miss Jones will pose as Mr. Kolcheck’s daughter and business manager. Mr. Callen, you will pose as her husband and act as their security detail.”
Nell glances at her tablet. “The meeting takes place in Paris in two weeks, where Mr. Kolcheck has an apartment. We’ll get a lay of the land in terms of syndicate personnel and create some backdoor access within the syndicate’s cyber systems if we can. With that intel, Homeland will make the call about next steps.”
“This is the best shot anyone’s had at this group.” Hetty says. “We take it and see where it leads.”
The only person in the room wholly unaware of why absolute silence has fallen is Owen Granger. He peers at the group, shakes his head. “Alright people. Let’s get this show on the road.”
The team troupes down the stairs. “Wow.” Marty says. “That just happened.”
Sam grumbles. “I’m not partnering with Granger.”
“Well, I doubt he’s going up in tech ops.” Kensi says.
Callen follows Hetty into her office. “Did she…”
“Miss Jones was fully briefed, Mr. Callen. Now, you have a legend to learn and plenty of homework on the Sarloffs. Two weeks. You also need to grow some hair.
~
Nell picks up where she left off creating legends for her, Callen and Arkady Kolcheck’s fictional little family. The reservation she felt accepting the mission isn’t eased by Callen’s stoic reaction. Of course, Hetty probably talked to him earlier. She’s suspicious of Hetty’s somewhat Machiavellian approach to her orphans, but even Hetty couldn’t manufacture such a complex situation just to meddle with Nell and Callen. Surely.
Tomorrow she’ll be on a plane to Chicago, the unfinished business with Cheryl looming. At least she’ll have buckets of work to keep her mind clear. A deep cover op will pad out her resume perfectly. She’s got a few feelers out at NSA and mission cred will only help.
“And three, two…” Eric intones from beside her just in time for her to note Callen’s approach.
“Nell?”
“Hmmm?” Her fingers fly.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Surreally, images of Nell and Callen begin appearing on the plasma screen. Their wedding, vacation shots, operations is immaculate at fabricating history. Nell and Arkady on a yacht. She turns away from it all and looks up into Callen’s face. He’s mesmerized by the screen for several more seconds. She stands in his line of vision. “We should.” She says. “Outside?” The security cameras will still pick them up, but at least Eric won’t actually be listening to them.
In the warmth of midday sun they stop in the shade of the building. Callen gazes at her. “We can’t do this if you won’t look at me.”
“I’m looking at you right now.” She says
“If you won’t touch me.” He counters.
She presses her lips. He extends his hand. Prove him wrong, she thinks, and slides her hand into his. His fingers close around hers. She tightens her clasp, gazes up into the impossible blue of his eyes, now clouded with concern. Yep, there he is. Her nostrils flare, the only sign of her discomfort.
“We live it for a week.” He says in Russian. “If it works we do it. If not, I go in alone.”
“What do you mean?” She asks, her own Russian fluent. He smiles.
“We do the homework, build the legends, live together for the next week. If we can do it, so be it. If not…” His eyebrow arches.
Every reason to walk away from him floats through her mind. But, he’s right. Neither of them is willing to say no nor can either of them afford to fail in the middle of this mission. “I’m not living at your house.” She says.
“Well, I’m not moving in with Eric and Milo.” He says.
“We’ll talk to Hetty.”
He nods. “And when we talk to each other, it’s in Russian. We need to get our accents closer together.” It takes a couple of days for him to sound like a native again. Her fluency is a little formal. They can watch some tv and movies to smooth out the edges.
For the first time in months a twinkle of mischief flares in Nell’s eyes. Callen tilts his head. She suppresses a giggle. “Let’s move in with Arkady.”
He laughs. “Perfect.” He releases her hand.
~o~
“G Callen. Long time.” Milo wipes his hands on a dishtowel and meets Callen in the middle of the kitchen. “From everything I hear, you’ll have your work cut out for you wrangling Nell and Kolcheck. Don’t envy you.”
“I bet you don’t.” Callen leans on a barstool. “How have you been? How’s things over in the seventh?”
Milo and Callen indulge in cop shoptalk. Upstairs, Eric perches on Nell’s bed while she finishes packing. “How is it,” he drawls, “yesterday you were all about moving to Timbuktu to get away from him and now you’ve agreed to live with him?”
Nell tosses her toothbrush into a small bag of toiletries. “Such exaggerations.” She zips the bag closed and tucks it into her carry on case. “I was talking about moving to Virginia and I’m not going be living with him.” She pauses, considers. “Not for very long.” She amends.
Eric grins, stretching out. “I, for one, hope the two of you find your way together. You make an adorable couple.”
“Stop. We don’t make a couple of any kind.”
“He’s luscious. You have to admit that.”
“I’m telling Milo.”
“I’m right.”
“You are right.” She weighs two pairs of tennis shoes, settles on the high-tops. She kicks off her ballet flats and skims out of her dress. “But for all I know he’s still hooking up with Joelle.”
“I can’t imagine him hooking up, ever. He’s too intense for that. Sam says they broke up free and clear.”
Nell tugs on jeans. She digs in a drawer and produces a grey t-shirt.
“You know the only reason you’re pissed at him is cuz you like him.” Eric says.
“Urgh.” Nell groans her irritation, avoiding his pointed gaze by pulling the shirt over her head. “Evil boy.”
Eric rubs his hands together, chuckles.
Milo and Eric see them off from their front porch. Hetty nixed Arkady’s for the night, giving them a key to a yacht anchored in Marina Del Rey and plane tickets to Chicago for the following day show up in Callen’s email. They leave Nell’s car and head for the mooring in Callen’s Mercedes. And while they’ve had most of the day and the better part of the evening to adjust to the plan they’ve put in place, it’s the first time they’re truly alone together. In response they’re both quiet, wrapped in thought.
Nell’s hyper aware of Callen’s presence in a way she hasn’t been in a couple of years. Not that there’s any chance he’ll ever be attracted to her now he knows she’s that filthy little kid from foster hell he had to look after. The best she’ll get is some flavor of brotherly… what…
“What?” He startles her.
“What, what?”
“You look pissed again.”
“No, um. S’nothing.” She doesn’t even know where to begin. A slight shudder runs through her frame.
“You see? That. That’s what I mean. You can’t have that reaction to me asking you a simple question and convince someone we’re married to each other at the same time. Can’t be done. What the hell was that?” Callen pulls the car to the curb and turns to face her. “You find me…. creepy?” He frowns.
Nell giggles. “No.”
“No.”
“No.”
He sighs. “I am sorry I ran on you all those years ago. Me being a kid doesn’t mean it didn’t make your life harder when that was the last thing you needed. It’s taken me the better part of these years to let go of the damage done to me by people who intended well. So I know how that can go. If I tripped over one of them tomorrow I have no idea how I’d react.”
“How about if you tripped over one of them in form of someone you care how they see you?” She asks. His eyes darken, focusing on her tightly. Heat floods her face. She sighs, her eyes drift shut against his stunned expression. “Yeah. Like that.”
From the silence comes his hand on her wrist, strong fingers closing gently. Then his voice. “I’d be volcanically mad.” She hears the click as she feels his hand release her seatbelt. Hands on her shoulders turn her toward him. “I don’t like feeling that kind of out of control. I might run.” She opens her eyes to find his closer than she expected. “I would never tell you. Everybody knows you’re braver than I am.” There’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “When we get to this… yacht…” he smiles over the word. “We crack a bottle of wine and tell each other everything we can from then till now. We make the edges match up. We see where we are. Right now there’re still two of you for me. Gotta resolve that, then we see.”
“For that we’ll need whiskey.”
~
Callen’s lawlessness was on the streets of Los Angeles, Russia, the Ukraine, Israel, Afghanistan and Poland. Nell’s was in the suburbs of Chicago and deep in the dark web. Like their overlapping sojourns in foster care, when he was deep undercover for the CIA she hacked the agency’s field agent rosters. He’d heard rumors in the ranks about the hack. She’d heard in the ether about the hit in Russia. Hetty’s yacht is snug, but lush. 21 year old Glen Livet, crystal snifters, classical music, silk upholstery.
They’re a couple glasses into the scotch before broaching anything about relationships. She listens carefully to his confirmation of what she’s read in his files about his parents and sister. He adds detail about grandparents and an uncle. She has no idea who her father is, or was. Her little brother is just a snapshot and a story.
When the night gives way to morning, they match up memories of Cheryl’s house. Nell curls into a ball on the couch, a reflexive defense against a long gone world. Callen rests a hand on her back, a patch of warmth seeps through her t-shirt. When she fingers the hem of his t-shirt their eyes meet, thickening the strand of recognition linking them.
“It was you.” He says.
“And you.” She says. She curls up to sit, crossing her legs under her butt and rocking forward until her hands rest on his chest, her face inches from his. She could put her cheek on his shoulder and drift to sleep. Or she could kiss him.
Nell’s lips ghost over Callen’s mouth, her breath soft and hot. The touch is so light it’s an inference, a request. He leans and crushes his mouth to hers, his hands gathering fabric up her back, pressing her to him until their lips fit together. Her mouth opens under his, grants entrance and he drinks of her for a long moment.
They pull apart to breathe. “As long as that’s clear.” She says.
“Yes.”
She nods. Licks her lips, tastes him there, her smile widens. She nods again. “I’m afraid I’d rather be sober for anything more.”
“Good call.” His gaze drifts over her face, his smile languid. “Well, the only thing for it is sleep.” He takes her hand. They shift from the couch and make their way to the bedroom. Without comment they settle on the feather duvet and let sleep take them, fully clothed, curled around each other.