Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS:LA or its characters…
Author's Note: So the idea for this was condensed into a drabble (see Stakeout Small Talk and other drabbles), but my loquacious self wasn't satisfied with being concise. This will be a two-shot. Kind of pointless, but… aren't most of my fics?
Nell Jones had created an inscrutable mist to rival the fog that engulfs a Maine coastal town in the dawn hours. She half-expected to see the glow of a light house in the distance, hear the bellow of a foghorn echoing off the water. But she was only in the women's shower at the Office of Special Projects, and still shivering despite having successfully used up every last drop of hot water in the entire building.
She momentarily felt guilty, as she considered the man who had headed for the men's locker room at the same time she dashed -okay, shuffled- towards her own hot water haven. Hopefully, he hadn't delayed, and grabbed a shower immediately. Because he was going to be in for a frigid surprise if he attempted to do so now. There was no denying the selfish indulgence of the who-knew-how-long, deliciously warm shower. Water conservation was a serious issue for the planet, Nell was aware. But she had a hard time conjuring the environmentalist in her after spending four hours in 60 degree water, with only a thin cotton cover-up thrown over a bikini and the body heat of her partner (well, temporary partner, for the stupid undercover op that although considered a 'win' for thwarting the bad guys, was not something she considered a 'success').
Nell Jones only wanted to drive the chill from her bones.
Thanking the universe for the creation of the supreme being known as 'Henrietta Lange', Nell grabbed a freshly laundered, extra plush bathrobe out of the towel closet and wrapped herself up with a sigh of immense satisfaction. Only Hetty would insist they have a stock of toiletries to rival the Ritz' luxuries.
Briefly, Nell wondered at the business they must give to one very lucky laundry service as she picked up the sopping pile of clothes she'd carelessly shed on the locker room floor and tossed them along with the towel she'd used into the large laundry bin. Despite vigorous drying with the plush towel (disregarding the affect it would have on her hair), there were still rivulets dripping down the nape of her neck, and the precisely 70 degree central air was making the heat flee the top of her head in waves. A glint of florescent light off metal caught her eye as she headed towards her locker to dig out a fresh pair of clothes and she paused.
Oh, to hell with it.
She crouched down with her back to the wall and reaching up, pressed the big metal button. Hot air whooshed down over her head with the roar of jet engines deafening her to an almost painful degree. But she didn't care. When the hand-dryer shut off, she didn't hesitate to initiate another cycle. And another, before her exhausted legs refused to hold her weight up and she slid completely to the floor, her eyelids feeling heavy.
Something about sharks with teeth of jagged ice and an abyss like the deepest oceanic trench. The details of the dream swirling about her head evaporated as soon as her chin hit her chest and she jerked awake.
She was cold again.
The concrete floor had leached away what little warmth she had forced into her frigid bones. Somehow, she managed to struggle to her feet, find her locker, dig out some cozy clothing and dress.
Home. She needed to crawl into bed under a pile of quilts and sleep the week away.
Shuffling slowly towards the exit, Nell felt like a zombie ambling determinedly to the house where the living were holed up. She'd never have called herself a strong swimmer, but she had never thought herself a weak one, either. But keeping her head above water for all those hours had sapped every last ounce of her strength. She was drained to the core and... aw, damn. Like a large, awkward and poorly maneuverable barge, she began to change direction. She couldn't drive herself in this condition. She'd have to call a cab. And there was no way her legs would hold her while she waited outside.
Not to mention, it wasn't in protocol to give the address of the 'abandoned' building to a cab company... or anyone.
If somebody asked, she would never admit it. But neither was she ashamed of the noise she made, half-whine and half-moan-of-utter-despair. She was well within her rights to produce such a ridiculous, pathetic sound.
"Nell?"
She started, which surprised her, since she wouldn't have guessed she'd even have the energy for that knee-jerk reaction. It was G Callen. Apparently, he hadn't left yet either. But he was more vagrant than anyone she knew, bar actual vagrants. The man came and went as he pleased, and couldn't be pinned down to any schedule. But she thought that after the day (and night) they'd had, he would've wanted to head home as soon as possible.
"Hey," she said weakly.
"Feeling better?" He asked from where he was sitting on the sofa in the lounge area.
"I don't think I'll ever be truly warm again."
"Uh... yeah." Uncharacteristically, he looked somewhat sheepish. "Sorry about that."
"It's not your fault, really," she said. "I mean we probably could've found another way to stop that yacht full of explosives, but blowing it up seemed to do the..."
She yawned, her jaw cracking in a disturbingly loud manner, which she hoped was more due to the quiet of the large, cavernous, and vacant building than the condition of her mandible. When she opened her eyes, a quite laborious task, Callen was so close she started again. And then yawned again.
"Why don't you sit down a moment?" His hand was firm but not constrictive on her arm. She could only blink her bleary eyes at him and nod slowly, as he escorted her over to the sofa and sat her down.
"Cocoa?" he asked, handing her a still steaming mug of thick, chocolate perfection. She accepted the celestial nectar and took a sip, scalding her taste buds and not caring as it burned its way down her esophagus to pool warm and thick in her belly. The sound of pure pleasure that issued from the back of her throat was likely last produced under much different circumstances, the nature of which was also likely apparent to anyone who heard the ecstatic moan.
But Nell didn't care. She was too tired to care. Instead, she greedily drank down another gulp of the hot, sugary liquid. Mm. Hot cocoa equals bliss.
"Thanks," she said to the man who had provided said 'bliss' warming her fingers and stomach. It hadn't quite reached her bones however.
"You're welcome." Callen took a sip from his own mug. He was wearing cozy looking sweats, and she was a little jealous of the thick hoodie. All she could find were her yoga pants, a camisole and cardigan.
She sighed as the temporary warmth of the hot cocoa dissipated and goose bumps broke out over her skin for the hundredth time that day. While she was quite thankful to have been officially diagnosed with only mild hypothermia and with Hetty's sway not been forcibly hospitalized, Nell was beginning to doubt the Medics evaluation. Would she ever feel warm again?
She was a mid-westerner for god's sake. For the first ten years of her life winter snow cover was deeper than she was tall, and vastly subzero temperatures were the norm. This... this softness was shameful. Especially since blue eyes, Caribbean warm rather than tundra icy, were studying her intently. Callen frowned and then unzipped his hoodie, shedding it.
"Here." Nell tried to refuse his offer, but he gave her little choice, throwing the garment over her, and then swaddling her in it until she finally relented and put her arms through the large sleeves. He zipped her up in it, and she felt as if she'd been engulfed by a fluffy cloud, that smelled like...
"Lavender?" she said aloud and then blushed. If she didn't know better, she would swear the man's cheeks turned vaguely pink as well.
"Hetty somehow feels the need to stock the showers like a high end luxury hotel suite," he said. "I think maybe the fancy soaps were supposed to go to the ladies'."
Nell giggled. She couldn't help it. Delirium. That's what it was. Exhausted delirium. She wasn't in her right mind, which could be why she leaned in and sniffed his shoulder, giggling again as the wave of lavender filled her nose. G Callen smelled like flowers. Like a girl. His scent was generally one of gun cleaner, sweat and sometimes soot and blood (not that she had noticed). Falling against him, she giggled some more, feeling like a silly child staying up late at summer camp, hiding under the blanket with her BFF, a flashlight and a game of MASH.
Callen chuckled, doubtless amused by her ridiculous state.
"You're exhausted."
Wow, great observational skills, special agent.
"Why don't you lie down for a little while?"
"No," she shook her head. "Want to go home. So cold. You're warm." Her eyelids were feeling very heavy. "...'s nice..."
Sometime later, she couldn't say how long, Nell Jones woke to find herself beneath a fleece blanket, sandwiched between the back of the sofa and a large, warm body. And rather than feeling awkward, even upon discovering there were hands settled in somewhat scandalous places, she felt cozy and warm.
Finally.
She buried her face in the soft fabric of Callen's t-shirt, nuzzling his chest, sighing and drifting off to sleep once more.
A/N: So now you see I just can't resist the Nell/Callen cuddles… Callen-centric part next.