Disclaimer: "Scarecrow and Mrs. King" is the property of Warner Bros. and Shoot the Moon Productions. I enjoy periodically borrowing their characters for entertainment purposes.
There was no doubt in his mind that when he walked the halls of the Agency people noticed his presence. Most of them would quickly look away, a few would nod at him, and if he were in the company of a colleague a handful would offer a perfunctory greeting. He tried to maintain a low profile, although his height made that nearly impossible. He'd learned years ago that drawing undue attention to oneself in the intelligence community could be deadly.
He glanced at his watch, noting what he suspected was the entire cryptography staff leaving for the day, and it was barely 4:30 in the afternoon. It didn't surprise him, he had the impression that everyone who could leave for the day would be gone long before the new year began. He didn't begrudge them their celebrations; he simply didn't participate in them. No one expected that he would, it had been years since anyone had even bothered to extend him an invitation.
Life experience had led him to view holidays, New Year's Eve in particular, differently than most people did. They'd spend hours poring over year end retrospectives, and even more time contemplating potential resolutions for the upcoming year. Danger and death surrounded some of them to the point that its presence in their lives left them somewhat jaded. They mourned their losses to be sure, but they tried assiduously to not dwell on them too deeply or for too long.
He'd learned to give the impression that he dealt with the death of agents the same way as they did. The impassive facial expression and clipped tone of voice that had become his trademark allowed him to hide how deeply he truly felt each and every loss that the Agency suffered. He hadn't met all the agents that had died in the line of duty over the years, but not having known them personally didn't diminish the effect their loss had on him.
Throughout most of the year, he tried to tamp down his grimmer thoughts, but at the end of each year he'd made it his practice to drink a toast to the agents he'd lost during the prior twelve months. Having reached his office, Dr. Smyth entered it, closing and locking the door behind him. Puffing on his cigarette, he poured himself a glass of scotch. He marveled at his acting prowess, his subordinates believed that he had no heart, didn't care about them as people. It was better for all concerned that they not know that he was haunted by the names and faces of all the agents who had died on his watch.
Billy Melrose, and others like him, had the luxury of getting close to the men and women who reported to them. Yes, a department head had to sent agents out on potentially deadly assignments, but ultimately it was he, the Director who was responsible for choosing how much human capital to risk in carrying out the Agency's mission. He'd spent more years than he cared to consider, ruthlessly seeking this position of power, and now he sat alone experiencing one of the burden's of his success.
Author's note: This ficlet is yet another response to Lanie's very creative challenge to feature a secondary character in a holiday story. I'd also like to acknowledge the members of the SMK fanfic FB group. Their December 13TH post concerning Dr. Smyth inspired this story.
Happy New Year to all!