Author's Note: I do not own NCIS: LA
I've revised this to reflect conversations I've had with SilverSentinal21, who's been very helpful!
March, 2013
Chapter 1: Hetty's Problem
Henrietta Lange had a problem. But if she'd learned anything in her forty-five year career, it was that the solution to most dilemmas could be found in one of three things: First, a cup of hot black tea properly prepared; second, a healthy measure of expensive single-malt; or third, cleaning your pistol. It was too late in the day for tea and too early in the day for scotch, so the best approach was to clean her pistol. And so it was that she was to be found in the armory with her trusty weapon disassembled, meticulously rubbed down, oiled, and laid out before her.
Hetty knew her career was coming to an end. In the world of intelligence and counterintelligence, too many agents had entered the vast, lucrative gray area of private security; too many had given up so they could enjoy the human comforts of retirement; and a few, but still too many, had ended up as a star in the lobby at headquarters. To have reached her age and still be in this business was an accomplishment. For a woman to have done it was even more remarkable.
The sad fact is that spycraft is still a man's world. We never talk of Jane Bond or of Jill Ryan. Yet here she is supervising two of the best young women in the intelligence community, and all she can do is clean her pistol. Hetty thought back to those she learned from, to the stories she'd heard from her elders. She'd heard tales from the days of OSS working with the resistance in occupied Europe. What had it taken for those agents to tell her those stories, of smuggling information across the Berlin Wall, people out from behind the Iron Curtain: China, Albania, Romania? There's the rub: so many losses. The previous generation told her of their inner demons, the ops that broke their spirit. Well if they'd had the guts to tell her, then she could tell the next generation.
It was time, she decided, to let loose some of those specters: to tell some of her ghost stories. She left her pistol, still in pieces on the workbench, and went to the filing cabinet, where, behind a key lock and a combination lock, she found the list she needed, Codename, date, location, and classification level. She scanned it over, grabbed the folders for some of the lower-classified projects, and set them on the stool beside hers. With resolution and new purpose, she locked the safe, finished cleaning her pistol, returned it to its cabinet, and took the folders to her desk, where they landed atop the day's newspaper.
At her desk, she poured her first glass of scotch: the bottle from the second shelf. She'd save the top-shelf for when this plan succeeded. After 30 minutes of reviewing the files, she paused for a minute, deep in thought, then placed a call. "Hello, Anna…. Are you coming out this time? … I'm sure you will be, but listen, I've got a favor to ask of you…."
The next morning, after things settled down for the team, Hetty found Eric working in the electronics lab. "Mr. Beale, my office, please."
Once he had settled into the visitor's chair and Hetty had poured him a cup of English Breakfast tea, Eric asked "Is there a problem, Hetty?"
"Not that I know of. Is there anything you know of? I simply wanted a few minutes of your time to discuss Ms. Jones."
"She's amazing. The things she can do with a computer blow my mind. She thinks quickly in stressful situations, and her analysis always gets to the heart of the matter. She's a rockstar, in my opinion."
"I quite agree with you, although I think teamwork brings out the best in her."
"Well then, you deserve the credit, not me. I'm just plain-old-Eric."
"Now, I won't have you selling yourself short: You're an exceptionally talented young man. But Ms. Jones… remind me of the languages she speaks."
Eric hesitated for a moment, struggling to keep up with the speed of Hetty's transition, "Well, she's mentioned French and German that I remember, and there's some talk that she knows ASL."
"And has she traveled abroad?"
"I think she went to France on a high-school trip, and to Niagara Falls with her family….She's not in any trouble, is she?"
"Good heavens, No! Do you think she wants to travel more?"
"I don't remember her saying anything in particular, Hetty."
And in your conversations, has she mentioned her long-term career aspirations?"
Eric thought for a second, "I don't know if I should tell you this, but she recently mentioned getting field training."
"What do you think was her thinking on it?"
"This was right after she was done being held hostage by Inman, and I was worried about seeing my partner in the field. But she said she was actually thinking of going into the field. I said I'd be happy to see her do that, if that's what she chose."
"That's good. Any hobbies or pastimes?"
"Well, there's volunteering, a little bit of time on her X-box, and believe it or not, she reads about herself on fanfiction. I don't think she's mentioned anything else to me…. Oh, she gets out her oboe on the weekend!"
"Fanfiction? On which website?"
"I know she reads fanfiction dot net. I don't think she reads any others."
"Hmm,... Interesting..." Hetty hesitated, "Now, I don't like to do this, but I need to ask: are you two dating?"
It took Eric the better part of fifteen seconds to recover his composure after that. When he finally did speak, his face was still three shades redder than usual. "Technically, no. You probably wouldn't understand, but we have 'a thing.' I'd like to date her, and I think she'd like to date me and I don't think she's seeing anyone else, but I really don't want to risk the great friendship we have, and I don't want to put our partnership at risk. I think I'm just too nervous to ask her out."
Hetty gave him a sad and sympathetic look. "I understand: Probably better than you think, Mr. Beale: better than you think.
"For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
"I'll only add, Mr. Beale, that too many missed opportunities will lead to a lifetime of regrets. Carpe Deim!" And then she came out of her reverie. "Well, I can help you with that later, but thank you for your time."
As a very confused Eric Beale was climbed the stairs to ops, Hetty called out, "Detective Deeks, my office, please."
Author's Note: The poetry is a fragment from "Maud Muller" by John Greenleaf Whittier.