Lost Too Much

Disclaimer: NCISLA characters belong to Shane Brennan. All original characters and this story are mine.

Chapter 1

Callen strode into the mission like any other day, ready for whatever his job threw at him. He arrived at the bull pen and smiled at his partner. "Morning, Sam."

Sam looked up and returned the smile. "Morning, G. Looks like we're the first in again."

Callen looked over at Hetty's office and thought it was strange for her not to be sitting behind her desk, sipping on a cup of tea. "Hetty's not in yet?"

"No."

"Strange." Callen added, before they could hear the familiar bantering from their junior team members. Callen turned and smiled as he often did when Kensi and Deeks arrived together. "Morning, Kens, Deeks."

"Morning, Sam, Callen." Kensi replied.

"And what a good morning it is." Deeks added. He was on a high from a good surf that morning.

Sam shook his head and chuckled. "Get laid by any chance last night, Deeks?"

Deeks frowned. "Um, no."

"Then why the good spirits?" Sam always liked to push the detective that bit further, for amusement.

"The waves were perfect this morning and then I was greeted by my lovely partner with coffee and donuts." He answered honestly.

Kensi sniggered over Deeks' remarks about her.

"What?" Deeks was always being picked on by the other members of his team. But to be honest he loved the attention. It was far more attention than he had ever received at LAPD. So he saw it as a sign that they liked him.

Callen and Sam chuckled at the younger man. Their smiles vanished at the sudden appearance of their least favourite visitor into the Office of Special Projects, Owen Granger.

"Morning." Granger greeted them, fully aware his appearance dulled their mood.

"Morning." They replied.

"Hetty has taken a month's vacation, you will have to do without her for a while," Granger advised them. He saw panic appear across their faces, but noted Callen quickly hid his away.

"Why are we only being told about this now?" Callen asked him curiously, but also worried about their mother hen.

"It's only happened over the weekend. She's accrued too much overtime, she's been forced to have a break."

"You know that the last time Hetty disappeared, we had to rescue her from the Comescus in Romania," Callen piped in. He worried she had suddenly disappeared.

"She has not disappeared, Agent Callen. However, this office cannot survive without an Operations Manager, so another agent will step in during this time." He saw their mistrust of a newcomer. "I am aware of how you all reacted to Agent Hunter, when she filled in last time for Hetty. I expect you to give your total loyalty and respect to her fill-in." He knew he had to tread carefully, after what he heard about the run-ins between Hunter and Callen. "Hetty has procured an experienced agent as her replacement. She will expect you to cooperate with her."

"So Hetty's fill-in, as you call them, is a woman?" Callen noticed his use of term, her, in his words.

Sam looked over at his partner and thought back to Hunter's time as Operations Manager. He worried how Callen would take this change.

"Yes. Her name is Agent Bronte Smith from our New York Office," Granger replied. "While there is no case as yet this morning, I suggest you complete your back log of paperwork.

They all grumbled and went to work. It hadn't been long before a woman in her late thirties, entered the mission. She had long brunette hair, that she had pulled down over one of her shoulders with a plait. She was dressed in a pants suit, with a tan leather jacket hanging over a rather feminine printed blouse. All four occupants of the bull pen's heads sprang up, as they watched her walk past them and over to Hetty's office. Work stopped as the four of them watched and quietly chatted about the new comer.

Bronte Smith placed her suitcase on the floor beside the chair and shook Owen Granger's hand. "Hello, Owen, it's been a while."

"Bronte, it's so good to see you again." She sat opposite Granger at Hetty's desk. "You're looking well."

"Thank you, Owen. Always the charmer, aren't you?"

"Not here, I'm not. They don't like outsiders. Hetty's single handedly picked her team, and while they are the best at what they do, they are a very close team and don't play well with strangers," he warned her.

"Oh goody. Just what I needed to hear." She looked around Hetty's office. "So this is where Hetty spends all her time these days?" Bronte smiled as she saw the familiar photos around the office. "It feels like her, here."

"Yes, it does." Granger returned her smile. "Have you seen her yet?"

"No. I've come straight from the airport. My flight was delayed leaving JFK." She leaned over the desk, and lowered her voice. "Do any of her team know what's going on?" She needed to know how much or little, the team she was working with knew about Hetty, and the reason why she was there.

"I've only told them the basics, Bronte. That Hetty has been forced to take a holiday due to having too much time accrued." Bronte frowned at Owen's answer.

"The truth always works best in my theory with dealing with a team like this one, Owen. Lauren told me how they behaved when she filled in for Hetty the last time. I won't tolerate that behaviour from them. It nearly killed Lauren, the way Agent Callen treated her. After all those years of hearing Hetty speak volumes of wonderful stories about him, and watching over him all these years, she didn't deserve it." She leaned in close again. "Lauren risked her life to pose as Ilena Vadim, just to protect him from the Comescus.

"Well if Lauren had perhaps chosen to tell Agent Callen what she had done, then perhaps their time working together would have been more tolerable," Owen advised her. It was before he had moved over to NCIS from the CIA, but he had been briefed on the situation by Lauren before she was killed.

"For goodness sake, Owen, she's no longer with us to be able to defend herself on the matter," she whispered. Owen saw Bronte's visage darken.

"I'm sorry, Bronte. I know the two of you were close, and with all the rest that has happened in the past year. I should have held my tongue." Owen regretted his words. He was concerned over Hetty's decision to have Bronte fill-in for her, after the events that had happened over the past couple of years to her. He wondered whether she was capable of doing the job.

"She was the closest thing I ever had to a sister," she whispered. Bronte took a deep breath in and held it. She had doubted too, her ability for this position, even if it was only for a month. She hoped that was all the time it was, as she worried over Hetty.

"Why don't you go and visit with her? There is no pressing cases at the moment. That way she can hand over details of the team and anything Hetty may need to advise you of, before things become hectic here." Owen had noticed the four sets of eyes watching them and discussing between themselves.

"Thanks, Owen, I'd appreciate that." She rose and placed a smile on her face. "I'll be contactable on my cell incase you need me."

"Yes, I'll call if we need you back sooner."

Bronte stood and headed for the exit. She noticed the audience in the bull pen, so she turned and smiled before leaving.

"Was that her?" Kensi wondered.

"I don't know," Callen answered, unsure.

"Well if she was Agent Smith, then why has she left already?" Deeks questioned.

"One look at your ugly face, made her run for it, Deeks," Sam joked.

"Hey!" Jokes aside, they were curious as to what was going on.

Callen watched Granger walk up to OPS. "Cover for me while I go and see if Hetty has left the reservation again!"

"Yeah, sure." Sam replied.

Bronte pulled up the long sweeping driveway in front of the large, red brick home. Memories flooded back to the forefront of her mind as she walked towards the door. She used her own set of keys and allowed herself in.

"Mom?" She called out. "It's me, Bronte."

"In here, dear." Bronte followed her mother's voice, and found her sitting in the conservatory with another familiar face. "Père, you're here." She ran over to the dark haired man sitting beside her mother.

He stood and caught his daughter in his arms. "Bonjour, my sweet daughter."

"Bonjour, Père," Bronte smiled up at her father. He kissed her on both cheeks.

"Hello, Mother." Bronte bent down and hugged her mom. She studied her to see if what she had heard was true. "How are you feeling?"

"Hello, my dear Bronte. I've felt better," she sighed. "But you my dearest, are looking well. How have you been? I hardly get to see you these days."

Bronte noticed her mom seemed more tired than usual, but otherwise, the same as she had seen her a few months ago. "Thank you, Mom. Getting there slowly. Max sends lots of hugs and kisses," she added. She smiled thinking of her eight year old son. "Also Jethro and Abby send their wishes to you too."

"Thank you, dear." She smiled at her daughter. "I miss seeing Max. He always makes you feel happy, no matter how bad things have been."

"I know, he's been a blessing for me. I don't know how I would have made it through this past year without him." It was almost a year since her husband Greg had been gunned down in front of their children. He had been undercover for three months, and they thought they had caught all of the members of the drug cartel. Only to find out too late that they had missed one, who had found Greg and had his revenge. But her pain didn't end there. Their ten year old daughter, Carrie, had been killed by the Columbians as well. It had nearly killed her. She was thankful Max had been spared. It was only a year after she had lost her sister, Lauren Hunter. After her mother had brought her home from the orphanage, the two girls had become best friends. Within a year, she had lost three members of her family. And now she was faced with her mother's illness.

"Père, I have some photos from our holiday, when we first met. It's somewhere in my old bedroom." Bronte suddenly needed a change of subject. She climbed the stairs quickly, before either of her parents tried to convince her otherwise and change her mind. She opened the door to her childhood bedroom and was taken back in time. Tears streaked down her face, as memories of her and Lauren sitting on her bed talking and laughing about boys, music and fashion. "I miss you, Lauren," she whispered. Bronte picked up her soft brown bear she'd had since childhood and squeezed it tight. "Help me be strong, Honey. I've lost too much already. I can't lose anyone else, especially not my Mom." She sat down on her bed and found comfort in her old bear.

She blinked the tears away from her eyes and saw a blue and green coloured box on the bookshelf. Amused that it was still where she had left it all those years ago, Bronte walked over and carried it back to the bed. Carefully she lifted the lid off and a smile returned to her face. "I can't believe Mom kept all of these for me." She opened each of her paintings and drawings from her childhood and laughed at the picture she had drawn of her family. She remembered drawing this at school. In the background was a map and on the map stood her family. Her Father was making chocolate eclairs, in southern France, whilst she, Lauren and her mother were at the beach in Los Angeles. A small plane spanned across the United States and the Atlantic Ocean, to where her father lived. She had drawn the Eiffel Tower in, to show the country was France. But what she had forgotten and made her curious then, was a drawing of a boy, also in Los Angeles, with lots of houses drawn next to him. He looked sad and suddenly she realised who she had drawn in her family picture. G. Callen. She had only been thirteen when she had drawn this picture, it was for an assignment on families for History. It had been a few months after she had first visited her own father. Hence the elaborate detail of the plane flight to southern France and her father cooking at his restaurant. But what surprised her, was the impact of her mother trying hard to find a family for G. Callen, had on her back then. She was aware her mother had tried very hard and remembered asking her mom to have him come live to with them. She had seen sadness in her mother's eyes and had replied, "he can't." She had never understood her mother's reasons. Perhaps that was why she had included him in this drawing.

Bronte, with the box in her hands, walked back down the stairs, eager to reminisce old family photos with her parents. It had been a very long time since she had both parents to herself. A year ago, she had too many people around her, trying to offer some kind of comfort for all her suffering. But here she was, if only for a short time with both of her parents. She was going to make the most of it.

"I can't believe you kept all of my old paintings and drawings from when I was a kid, Mom!" Bronte blurted out, as she entered into the room. "Père, I have to show you this drawing I did for History, about our family." She noticed her mom's look of discomfort. "Are you alright, Mom?" She followed her mother's gaze and stopped in her tracks. "Hello." She greeted the visitor. "I'm Bronte Smith."

G. Callen rose from his seat to return the greeting. "Hi. G. Callen." He shook her hand and felt a spark of electricity run up his arm. He noticed she jumped from the touch.

Bronte quickly removed herself from him, surprised over the shock from touching him. "Pleased to meet you," she replied.

Callen assessed her before continuing. "You called Hetty, Mom!" He waited patiently, as he watched her react to his statement.

Bronte knew she had been caught out. This was the last thing she had wanted, the people she was to work with knowing that she was Hetty's daughter. "Yes, I did." She looked over towards her mother, and saw amusement in her eyes. "I suppose you think this is funny." She stated to her mother. "It was you who kept me quiet all these years, remember?"

"Yes I did, my dear Bronte, but, the look on your face when you realised we had company was amusing." Hetty smiled at her senior agent. "I must apologise, Mr Callen, for my habit for keeping secrets. It's been a hard one to kick."

Callen looked between mother and daughter. Then he remembered her calling Hetty's French visitor, Père. French for father. He looked over at the Frenchman, whom Hetty had introduced as Philipe Reinard. "And Philipe is your Father?"

Bronte smiled. "Yes, he is."

"But your name is Smith!" He questioned her.

Bronte laughed. Everything her mother had told her of this G. Callen was right. Inquisitive, with trust issues. "Smith is my married name."

"Oh." Callen felt awkward for the silly admission. So she was married, he thought. So why was he disappointed? It puzzled him, as he had only just met her. "So, is your husband here in L.A. with you?" Why did it matter? He pushed those questions to the back of his head, when he had time to analyse them, himself.

Bronte's smile disappeared. "No."

Philipe and Hetty noticed the change in Bronte immediately. "What did you want to show me?" Philipe asked his daughter, trying hard to change the conversation.

"Oh." Now it was Bronte's turn to feel awkward. She no longer had the desire to show her father the picture she had drawn with G. Callen in the house. "It was nothing."

To her annoyance, she saw Callen pull the top drawing out of the box and opened it. She blushed from embarrassment. "This is a really good drawing," Callen told her.

Philipe walked over to Callen and looked at his daughter's drawing. "I agree with Mr Callen. Bronte, you are very talented," he laughed. "Look at me, cooking in my restaurant in St Tropez. Did you draw this after your holiday when we first met?"

Bronte nodded. "It was for an History assignment on families."

Callen studied the drawing and noticed the sad boy with lots of houses next to him. "Whose this sad boy?"

Bronte looked over to her mother, feeling awkward. Hetty remained silent. "Um, it's you," she stuttered.

"Me?" Callen was surprised to see he was included in her family drawing. "Why?" He asked her. "We've only just met." He was puzzled.

"Bronte was more aware of my watching over you as you were growing up than I had realised," Hetty finally spoke. "She had asked me to have you live with us when I couldn't find you a family."

Callen tried hard to keep his emotions in check. It was a question he had wondered himself after he had found out that she had tried to find him a family. "Why didn't you?" He suddenly felt like that young boy again. He looked over towards the older woman.

"I couldn't. I needed to hide you to keep you safe from the Comescus," she stated. She knew he would come over to visit her that morning after he had heard she was on vacation. After all, he had followed her all the way to Romania the last time she didn't turn up for work.

"But they found me anyway!" She knew he was right.

"When you were old enough to defend yourself. And I had Bronte and Lauren to consider as well." She really was getting too old for this now. Perhaps Bronte had been right all along. Perhaps it would have been best for Callen, had she been honest with him from the beginning and taken him in.

"Mom, I'm sorry," Bronte began. "I shouldn't have brought these drawings down. They've opened up too many old wounds. You need your rest. I better go." She turned to Callen. "I will see you later?"

"Uh, yes." Callen handed her drawing back to her.

"I will come by later to see you, Mom." She kissed her mother on the cheek. "Père, are you cooking tonight?" She asked her father, as she kissed him on his cheeks.

"I am. Any requests?" He loved to cook, but mostly he loved cooking for his family.

"Can I be cheeky and ask for a dessert from across the border?" She asked him.

"Ah! Oui, Panna Cotta. Your favourite. For you, my dearest Bronte, of course."

"Merci, Père." Bronte excused herself from them and headed back to the mission. She sighed as she sat in the car. Meeting G. Callen like that had thrown her off balance, in more ways than she thought possible.

"You'll have to excuse our daughter, Mr Callen." Philipe began. "She's been through a few tough years." He looked over at Hetty. Hetty nodded back, to allow him to continue. "Bronte has lost too much recently. Firstly, Lauren, her sister and then almost a year ago, her husband and daughter were killed. All she has left, are us and her son, Max."

Callen looked over at Hetty. "Greg Smith was her husband?"

Hetty nodded. "Yes."

Callen realised, Bronte's daughter was Hetty and Philipe's granddaughter. "I'm sorry for your loss." Gibbs had told Callen a year earlier about a friend in New York, an NCIS Agent, who had been gunned down by some Columbian Drug Cartel, whom he had infiltrated and thought they had captured or killed them all. Gibbs had also told him how the daughter had been senselessly killed as well, but the son had been spared. It brought back memories for Callen, over his own mother's execution by the Comescus and how he had been spared.

"Thank you, Mr Callen." Philipe and Hetty responded in unison.

"Thank you for the tea. I better get back to the office." Callen let himself out of the red brick home that he and Sam had escaped from, while being gunned down by hired gunmen, three years earlier.

Hetty sighed when she and Philippe were alone. "So that was the boy Bronte told me about, when I met her?"

Hetty nodded. "I wish I had done more."

"It sounds to me like you did more than anyone else. What about his father?" Philipe had wondered why any parent would leave their children in the hands of the state, like Callen had been.

"We never found out. Oh I wished we had found out more for him. It's been hard keeping what I did know from him, until I was certain he was safe." She sighed again. All her years of being everyone's secret keeper had taken a toll on her.

"I should get you to the hospital now, Henrietta." He looked over at his dear friend with sadness. He had worried about her often over the years, but more so now.

"Thank you, Philippe, for being here for us. It means a great deal to know that you will be in this large house with Bronte while I'm in hospital. I am concerned if this operation is not successful what it would do to her." Philipe helped her up off the chair and supported her.

"Whenever you need me, Henrietta, dear." Philipe continued to support Hetty out to her car, before driving her to the hospital.