Title: Only Girl In The World

Author: rekkidbraka

Rating: T

Pairings: EJ Barrett/Mike Renko

Category: Romance

Disclaimer: No infringement intended.

Spoilers: None

Summary: How to salvage two NCIS misfits' careers? Let Hetty handle them. EJ and Mike meet. Sort of.

The flight to Los Angeles was four hours but it felt much, much longer. In her seat — coach; NCIS wasn't even springing for business class for her anymore — E.J. Barrett closed her eyes and tried to figure out how she'd destroyed what had been such a promising career.

The team leader position? Gone. She'd resigned. Had no choice. Vance was furious with her. He'd put a lot of trust in her and she'd made him look like a fool.

The Port-To-Port Killer case? Over. And she'd gotten it horribly wrong. She should've listened to Gibbs, not acted like she knew more than he did. She knew that now. Too late.

The fling with DiNozzo. Done. Total mistake. The guy so obviously was in love with his partner. She'd told him that, finally. He'd not wanted to hear it but she'd told him he should get real and admit that he wanted Ziva, not her. She kind of admired Ziva, actually. Maybe under different circumstances they'd have worked well together. She'd never know.

But what it all amounted to was that Vance had accepted her resignation. She'd been packing up her desk when he'd abruptly called her back to his office. Another dressing down? He'd raked her over the coals for nearly two hours over the P2P Killer. What now?

He'd simply handed her a plane ticket for L.A. and the address for a hotel.

"I don't understand," she'd said.

"You will," Vance told her curtly. "You'll go there and you'll wait."

"For what?" E.J. frankly felt a little scared. Go to Los Angeles and just wait in a hotel? That was crazy.

"For your job interview."

Once she arrived at the hotel, the first thing she did was what she always did when she was staying in a new place.

She showered.

But this shower was quick. Whatever this "job interview" was, she needed to be ready.

For that, she'd brought along her gun.

Vance hadn't taken her badge or I.D. She was still an agent. But ... where?

Emerging from the shower, she wrapped the thick hotel towel around her and pushed back her strawberry blonde hair. Looking in the mirror, she noticed that she appeared tired. When had she had a good night's sleep? Before she started seeing DiNozzo. She had to put D.C. out of her head. The whole assignment there was an epic fail.

Exiting the bathroom, E.J. started for the closet. She'd need a sharp outfit for this... interview or whatever. She wanted to...

"I suggest the white shift, Miss Barrett," a grandmotherly voice said from over her shoulder. "The lines are classic and compliment your figure."

E.J. whirled around, shocked. She'd had no clue anyone else was in the room.

A diminutive woman with large glasses stood before her.

"Who...?" E.J. was too stunned to speak. She gasped for air. She didn't own a white shift dress. And yet one hung before her in the closet. With matching purse and shoes.

The little lady simply handed her a card with an address on it.

"You'll not want to be late to meet your new partner," she said before turning and, without another word, heading for the door. But just before exiting, she turned back to E.J. and said again, "The shift, Miss Barrett. In all things, moderation." Then she was gone.

"How's she gonna know him?" Vance said over the phone line. "No names. No photos. Sounds like they're flying blind."

"I have faith, Director," Hetty Lange replied in her all-knowing way, "that they will naturally gravitate towards one another."

Her new partner, she guessed, would know that she'd be wearing the white shift dress. She hoped so because she had no clue who she was waiting for.

The address was for a trendy L.A. dance club. House music pumped through the speakers and an attractive, well-off twentysomething crowd moved on the dancefloor and held court at the bar. Normally, she'd have enjoyed this scene; she liked to party — still, when she got a chance (which was never) — but she wasn't sure where she should be to meet this new partner of hers. Shouldn't this meeting take place somewhere quieter? Whatever. The whole thing was weird and...

Okay. She was really getting tired of this jerk who'd been leaning right up against her at the bar since she'd gotten there. He was some kind of tall guy with greasy, shoulder-length hair and he'd had his back to her all night. His cologne was terrible; worse than Tony's had been, even. And he kept leaning back, bumping into E.J.'s drink hand, while he was hitting on whatever girl sidled up to where he stood.

At last, when Bar Bimbo No. Three had disappeared and Jerk was throwing back another drink while awaiting his next victim, E.J. decided to confront the guy when he'd caused her to slosh her drink one time too many.

She tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey..." she began. He ignored her.

"HEY!" she snapped, this time yelling. Now she'd gotten his attention. He started to turn around.

Her first thought, seeing his face, was that he had to be the biggest lounge lizard she'd ever laid eyes on.

Greasy-looking hair that needed cutting (and washing)... Easily three days' stubble on his face... Pale green eyes that looked half-asleep...

THIS guy was chatting up all the women at the bar? Please.

He wasn't even GOOD-looking.

It took her a minute to realize she was staring at him. But he was staring her down, too. And when she came back to herself, the look on his face pissed her off. Was he smirking at her? Nobody did that to her. Nobody.

"If you don't mind," E.J. began in a biting tone, "I'd like to NOT keep spilling my drink. So maybe you could stop bumping into me."

He sneered at her. He had this smile that was crooked. That, too, pissed her off.

"I don't mind that you can't hold a drink in your hand," he answered laconically before turning back around.

Now she was furious.

"Listen, DIRTBAG," E.J. said threateningly, grabbing the man's shoulder to force him to look at her.

He turned again and, staring down at her, rolled his eyes. Then he leaned down and whispered in E.J.'s ear, his breath hot against her skin. A shock of sudden, intense arousal shot through her body. She had to catch her breath; the sensation of his lips so near her was almost more than she could take.

"Go play somewhere else, little girl," he whispered huskily. "You don't wanna start something with me you can't finish."

Luck had been on her side, for once. As she'd stood, stunned by his words and his touch, some random guy in his 20s had sidled up and started hitting on her, asking if she wanted to dance.

Since the man whose attention she now wanted had turned away again, she composed herself and, yanking this other guy away from the bar, escaped to the dancefloor.

This was good. She relaxed as the music throbbed. She knew how to move on a dancefloor. And, she thought, casting an eye back towards the greasy guy at the bar, he'd see what he was missing now.

Blondes.

Blondes were trouble. Always.

Better to go after a solid brunette. But he'd tried all the lines on Kensi and that wasn't going to happen. Damn Deeks. He didn't care what Kensi said — that she and Deeks were just partners. They were getting it on. Deeks... Deeks! The guy had clown hair. C'mon...

Into his third whisky now, he watched her out there on the dancefloor. Those mirrors that clubs put behind the bar to make a room seem bigger than it was? An agent's best friend. They were how he'd monitored so many punks and pimps and tweakers throughout his less-than-stellar career at NCIS. But tonight he was just enjoying the view.

If that little blonde moved like that when she danced, she had to be amazing in the...

Then he remembered why he was there at the bar, waiting.

Supposed to meet his new boss — sight unseen. His job to make the contact. He'd just have to figure out who he (or she) was. Another one of Hetty's tests. He needed to pass this one. He'd bombed it when the tweakers tweaked themselves into a mass funeral, taking critical evidence needed to make his case with them. Hetty had been... uh... less than pleased.

"I forgive, Mr. Renko," she'd told him in that way of hers. "I do not forget."

He was off the Special Projects team. But he wasn't kicked out of NCIS. Hetty had "other plans" for him.

So now he was getting yet another boss. And they'd only be a two-man operation. Swell.

Which one of these losers in the club was so lousy at their NCIS gig that they managed to end up being in charge of him? He'd been there for over an hour and didn't see anyone who fit the bill.

Probably time to quit watching the little blonde. Getting turned on before meeting the boss? Not such a great idea.

Dammit, why couldn't she catch his eye?

She'd noticed so many guys checking her out. On the dancefloor. From the bar.

But not him.

This was a waste of time. And, sorry, but there was no way some NCIS agent was meeting her here.

Vance had set her up to be humiliated. Again. By his strange little friend.

Ultimate payback for how she'd made him look bad to the higher-ups. She deserved it.

Now, though, she'd had enough. She was out of here.

And this time her resignation would really be accepted. She'd insist.

She was pitching her clothes into her suitcase when the knock came at her hotel room door. 3:30 a.m. If it was that weird little woman again, she was going to...

She didn't even ask who was there. She didn't care. She threw the door open.

He was just standing there, leaning against the door frame, staring at her.

"Nice digs," he said in that don't-give-a-damn tone he'd used at the bar.

He'd followed her to the hotel from the club. Part of her wanted to let him in, the old E.J. who'd always let herself get distracted by the boys, as she'd told Tony. That was one of her fatal flaws, she'd realized, and she'd determined to change it. The candy store was closed. She had to focus. Having a one-nighter with this guy wouldn't solve her problems. It would just make her forget them for a few hours and then she'd be right back where she started. And he'd be gone.

"My dad told me never to open the door to strangers," E.J. shot back. She shut the door, locking it. Leaning against the door, she let out a long, deep breath. Smart move.

But she knew... she knew he was still out there, waiting. And something told her he wouldn't leave. He'd be there when she opened the door again.

She could call hotel security. And he'd find her. Outside of the hotel. She just got this from him. Already. Most women would find it creepy but she understood it for what it was in his case: He was intrigued.

He wanted her.

And she knew that before she left Los Angeles, she wouldn't be able to stay away from him.

So she opened the door.

"Pancakes," he said, as if their conversation had never been interrupted. "Pancakes would be great right now."

The all-night diner, Spades, was in a part of town that E.J. guessed wasn't on anybody's Tour of the Stars map. Prostitutes and their pimps, kids high on God knew what and babbling street people populated the booths and counter seats. The waitresses were all in their late 40s and up. Nobody was in a hurry to offer service. E.J. bristled at the overall uncleanliness of the place. She wrapped her arms tightly around her, wondering if the booth would leave some kind of stain on the pristine white shift she wore. This place was a dive.

Across the table, his pale green eyes stole a quick glance at her. She was hating this, he could tell. He loved that. He'd make sure they came here for breakfast all the time. He did, anyway. They loved him here. They'd get to love her, too. He could tell.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," the waitress, a stout woman in her early 60s with white-blonde streaks in her dyed, hot pink hair, said, smirking at him. "Rough night at the office, huh?"

The woman winked at him, cocking her head at E.J. He cast his eyes at E.J., who shook her head in disbelief, smirking at being talked about as if she weren't there.

"Putting in overtime, Vi," he said, letting that crooked smile of his show. The waitress snickered. E.J. already disliked her.

"The usual, Hot Shot?" Vi asked. He nodded. "What about you, honey?"

"Coffee," E.J. snapped. "With a clean spoon," she added, meaning it.

Vi cut her eyes at "Hot Shot," who lazily shrugged.

"She'll have the Midnight Express," he said. E.J. opened her mouth to protest but Vi had already scribbled the order onto her pad and, with a long look at E.J., stuck her pencil into her mound of a classic beehive hairdo as she left the table.

"You ORDERED for me?" E.J. hissed, furious.

"I did," said "Hot Shot," closing his eyes. "Better learn to make up your mind faster."

"Let's get something straight... HOT SHOT," E.J. said, chiding him, "you don't TELL me what to do. Got it?"

She was a pistol. He stared at her, wanting nothing more than to take her back to his apartment and feel her, naked against him, entwined in the sheets of his bed. Her skin looked so smooth. He imagined how she'd fit against him. He'd love to see her completely vulnerable, that loud yap of hers only able to beg him to...

"Coffee black for my Hot Shot," Vi said, interrupting his thoughts as she placed a mug before him. "Coffee clean spoon for the Cheerleader here," she added, not batting an eye as she raised a challenging brow at E.J. Then she headed back to the kitchen.

"Cheerleader," E.J. repeated, surprised. "Wait... How'd she...?" She looked at Hot Shot looking at her. He was laughing into his coffee. "Hey, I like things to be clean, OK? Something wrong with that?"

He just smiled at her, sipping his coffee.

Reluctantly, she brought her mug to her lips and took a sip of the hot coffee. It was rich, arguably the best coffee she'd ever had. And the spoon was spotless. She glanced over at the counter. Vi the Waitress winked at her, offering a little half-smile. Truce. E.J. smiled back.

"That thing at the bar," Hot Shot said, his green eyes studying E.J.'s face, "It gonna show up on my eval... Boss?"

E.J.'s smile faded. "Hot Shot's" had too. They stared at each other, realizing their situation.

"No," E.J. said, clearing her throat. "And don't call me 'Boss.'"

At the door to her hotel room, she turned to him. She hadn't asked his name and he'd not asked hers. They'd eaten their breakfast in silence and hadn't spoken since it hit them that they were each other's new NCIS partner. E.J. had never felt so awkward with a man before. She wanted him. At least wanted to get to know him better — off the job. And it wasn't going to happen. Not now. She understood why Tony had gotten furious when she'd told him to just admit he was in love with Ziva. He'd told her there were rules about this sort of thing when they'd started fooling around and she'd said there weren't. But now she got it. There were. Even if there weren't. It hurt like hell, knowing this guy was so close and so out of reach.

"I'm E.J. Barrett," she said as casually as possible. "Just so you know."

"Mike Renko," he replied.

"Got it," E.J. said. "So you know... um..."

"Hetty."

"... Hetty better than I do. What happens now? Do we call her? Does she call us? Does she drop down from the ceiling like James Bond or something?"

The hotel room door opened. E.J. turned, surprised. She hadn't even swiped the key card.

"That," Hetty Lange said, "is a fictional technique suited well to cinema, Miss Barrett. It rarely proves optimal in practice, however."

E.J. closed her eyes, catching her breath. Was there anywhere this woman couldn't show up?

"Nice suit, Hetty," Mike said. "New?"

"Givenchy, Mr. Renko," Hetty answered casually. "Merely something I picked up in Paris during a short junket recently."

"What was the body count?" Mike asked, smirking.

"The fashions this spring were outstanding," Hetty replied, her eyes sparkling. Mike snickered.

E.J. shivered. Just who had Vance gotten her mixed up with?

"Now that we've dispensed with the by-play," Hetty continued, ushering them into the room, "let's go over your first assignment."

After Mike left, once the assignment was detailed, E.J. and Hetty remained in the hotel room. The cover story was that she and Renko were reassigned to desk jobs at the NCIS: LA Records Filing And Procurement Division. In other words, they were in what was known among agents as the Dead Letter Office or the Filing Cabinet. Agents sent there were never seen or heard from again unless they quit. They spent their careers in absolute obscurity. Nobody needed anything from them or asked. They were the lowest of the low. Probies were accorded more respect.

"So should I start looking for an apartment? What's the procedure for..."

Hetty patted E.J.'s hand kindly.

"There are no procedures. No expenses. The operations you and Mr. Renko undertake are strictly off the books. Director's orders."

E.J. frowned, confused.

"I understand," she lied. "But how am I supposed to find a place to stay? L.A. is expensive and..."

"You'll stay with Mr. Renko."

E.J. swallowed hard.

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

Hetty leaned forward and, again, patted her hand.

"I expect the two of you to build a strong, lasting partnership, Miss Barrett," Hetty said quietly. "The details, I leave to your discretion."