A special thank you to TheAlphabetSong, for the suggestion of music.

All NCIS: Los Angeles characters are property of Shane Brennan and CBS.

In a daze, Eric shuffled along behind Nell. Like Charles Dickens' Mr. Fezziwig, she bounded through the chaotic, crowded LAX check-in concourse. She merry-Christmased the redcaps and hummed to the elevator-music Christmas carols which dueled with the TSA warnings on the loudspeakers. When she saw a lost-looking Salvadoran family, she chatted with them in Spanish, and then pointed them toward baggage claim. The cinnamon-evergreen potpourri brought her to a halt at the Crabtree and Evelyn kiosk, and Eric, lugging their carry-ons behind her, found himself observing—not for the first time—that a pair of brake lights on her hips would prevent embarrassing collisions. How she could be so excited about a five-hour red-eye flight, he had no idea. He knew, simply, that he'd just have to keep up and promise not to embarrass her, or himself.

When they got to the security checkpoint, Nell dragged him to the certified flier lanes, "Nell, are we allowed to do that?" so that when she flashed her badge with their boarding passes, they were guided directly to the metal detectors. In consequence, they arrived at their gate just as the harried gate agent called, "Northwest Airlines, flight 831, widebody service to Minneapolis, departing from gate A15 at 10:25. All passengers with confirmed tickets should now be boarding."

Eric's confusion level increased threefold when, on the gangway, Nell grabbed his left arm most endearingly, held it like a bell-rope for a few paces, and then pulled it over her left shoulder, clasping it in front of her bicep. Then she looked up at him and grinned, a Cheshire-Cat, kid-at-Christmas grin.

Their seats, 32 A and B, were to the left of the left aisle, and as Eric followed Nell to them, he took the time to check out the passengers around them. Directly behind sat teenage siblings, presumably attached to the forty-five-year-old couple behind them. In front sat two senior citizens, decked with souvenir golf shirts. Across the aisle sat a businessman who worked his smartphone like a man possessed until the pilot announced their takeoff. Behind Mr. Cellphone, in 33C, a fifty-year-old woman read a book in a scarlet nylon reusable cover.

As soon as they took off, Eric's look sterned, and he asked, "Okay, Nell. Help me get our story straight."

"Our story?"

"Our backstory, our cover. Nell, if I'm pretending to be your boyfriend, I'll need to get this stuff right. Remember, I don't have field training like you do!"
Nell's grin faltered, but then she assumed the didactic look of a parent explaining two and two make four. "Okay, Eric: we've got five hours to get this straight. For a long time, I've wanted to date you, and you've wanted to date me."

"For a long time," Eric confirmed.

"Right, so… we could, I suppose, go through this Christmas and pretend you're my boyfriend. It would be safe, and when we got back we would wait until nature took its course before we started dating for real." As Eric listened to her say it, he hoped, more fervently than ever, that there was another option. He took a breath as Nell squared her shoulders. "Or, we could treat this as the start of our dating. I was hoping, and I'm hoping you're hoping it too, that this could be the start of…"

He interrupted her, "Yes." He planted a kiss on her cheek, "Yes," another kiss on the other cheek, "yes. A million times yes. Let's let it start." His smile broadened and his ecstasy increased until the flight attendant came through and offered them pretzels.

Once the cart had moved on, Eric returned to his research. "So, Nell. What do we tell your family? I'm betting there's a lot that two people dating each other know that colleagues don't. I mean, it isn't really likely that I'd visit your family before we've even been on an official date." He paused, hoping she'd make her intentions clear, but when she didn't, he proceeded more tentatively. "I think we should tell them we started dating a while ago, so that visiting the family would be in the natural order."

"Okay, then."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Frustrated, he whispered, "Okay, so when did we start dating?"

She looked at her watch. "'bout twenty minutes ago." She smirked.

"No, I mean what will we tell your family. Nell! Would you be serious, here? I need your help!"

"Okay, let's go with Saturday, May tenth."

"May tenth? Why so specific?"

"Don't you remember? The notes-of-which-we-cannot-speak?"

"The notes? How could I forget?"

"Well, I didn't forget either. After that, Mom and Linda were pestering me about dating, and I kinda implied we were…kinda together." She trailed off. "Don't be mad, Eric. Please don't be mad."

Eric faltered. "Two roads diverged," he thought. On the one hand, he could be upset that he'd been lied about: It was, after all, his dating status, too. On the other hand, dating was what he wanted, and he'd never blame Nell for hurrying things along. Humor. That was the way out of his dilemma. "Typical! We've been dating for seven months, and I didn't even know it." She nodded shyly. "We've got some serious catching up to do!" He gave her a quick kiss on her temple.

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too, but I mean we need to get our story straight, about all the places we've gone and the stuff we've learned about each other. Like where was our first date?"

"The paella place?"

Creating cover. This is what they were good at. Eric relaxed. "Okay, that sounds good. Any trips while we've been dating?"

"Can we tell 'em that trip to Santa Fe combined business with pleasure?"

"Done! Wait, that was two springs ago!"

"'Kay, then. How 'bout we went back there this October for a vacation."

As the flight attendant trundled the cart through again, Eric leaned back. "This might work. This just might work," he thought.

After a comfortable silence, he whispered, "How much should we know about each other's exes?"

"Don't ask, don't tell, Beale."

"Not even Nate?"

"Especially not Nate."

Another comfortable silence, this time Nell broke. "Oh, and I'm on the pill."

Eric, drowsing off after the long day, startled into wakefulness, stammering, "What?"

"You know…. In case it comes up."

"What, during the interrogation?" Clarity. This topic, of all topics, needed clarity.

"Eric! They won't interrogate you. They'll love you."

For a second, he scowled in stubborn denial, but finally relaxed into businesslike efficiency. "Okay, but when it comes to sex, we're taking it slow."

"Why?"

"Well we haven't actually done it, and if we don't pretend like we have, it'll keep things less awkward there. Pretending that we have is just buying trouble."

"Whaddya mean, Eric?"

"It's bad enough that I'm dating their Little Nell,"

"What, you don't want to be dating me?"

"No, I'm loving it, but I think they'll be protective: they don't want me dating you."

"No, Beale, they'll love you. I've told them so many good things about you."

"See? I wanna be the good guy, so taking it slow seems right. Even if they do approve of me, they probably don't wanna think about me …doing that…with their little girl."

"I guess you're right." Nell sounded defeated.

"For once."

Eric stretched his arm across Nell's headrest, so when she realized his intention, she leaned forward enough to let him reach her far elbow, then raised the armrest so she could cuddle into his chest. For almost ten minutes Eric sat and smiled while the travelers slept around them and the miles zipped beneath them. Finally, he whispered into the silence, "So, were you just planning our cover, or are you really on the pill?"

"Takin' it slow, Beale." They shared a chuckle, then Nell returned to her dog-eared copy of Sun Tzu.

In the peace of the airplane, Eric's mind drifted back, back to high school, back to Dorothy Vinton. Dorothy, with wavy brown hair draping down to her shoulders, ever the sharpie, the girl all the boys ogled, had somehow become his debate partner, even though he was a year younger than she was. As they prepared their plans and counter-plans, as they found ever-more obscure quotation cards on the topic, they chatted, and Eric became a sounding-board for her problems with guys. "You seem out of sorts, today, Dorothy," would prompt another tirade on all the privileges Rob, the quarterback, or Scott, the point guard, would expect, simply for the honor of dating him.

Later, he waited for a ride home and overheard the guys from the sports teams with their bawdy complaints about her. "There goes Dorothy Vinton, the Ice Queen." "Frigid," they said. This wasn't the Dorothy that Eric knew: organized, witty and sarcastic. So it came as no surprise to him that she wouldn't put up with their groping. It's not like Eric tried anything, either. Not only was she out of his league, she was his teammate, his partner. Still, he felt for her, and vowed never to become "that guy," the one who expected so much, as if it were some male birthright.

Eric remembered his disaster with Paula Murcheson at the music ensemble festival. After years of viola practice, he'd been assigned Mozart's Sinfonia Concertante, for Violin (Paula), Viola (Eric), and orchestra, replaced with a piano accompanist. Since it's basically a double concerto, some wags say Mozart's best violin concerto includes a violist. Less irreverent speculation suggests Mozart wrote it to perform with his father, an act of reconciliation in their stormy relationship.

In the cafeteria/ready-room, amidst the cacophony of instruments tuning, runs and scales, (there was even some Paganini in the distance) Eric, in his nervousness and enthusiasm, had thrown an arm around her, "If this goes well, let me take you out to Le Cid!" he'd said, thinking of the neighboring town's fancy restaurant. Paula had quickly pulled back and stared at him. Once they reached the stage, her smile, normally natural and radiant, had been replaced with a glare, his with a strangled grimace. The performance itself had been a disaster, the judges' comments made clear. "You were stepping on each other's entrances. This piece is all about chemistry: make it a love-song! Violin: you need to flirt with him and charm him, not upstage him. Viola: not so plaintive!"

Eric knew he'd messed up, trying to turn their work into a relationship, and now he could see, with vicious clarity, how this trip was the first step down a path that led, inevitably, inexorably, to the same train-wreck he'd endured with Paula.

After a while, Eric dug his personal tablet out of his backpack, put it in airplane mode, and pulled up PowerPoint. "Okay, Nell. Help me understand your family tree."

"Relax, Beale! It'll be fine."

"No, it won't. You've known these people forever," his whisperings grew desperate, "but I'm getting dropped right into them."

"Still, you won't actually be facing an oral exam on them."

"No, but I will be expected to know something. We've been dating for seven months, remember? And besides, I don't want to mess this up. These people are too important to me."

"You haven't even met them yet."

"No, I haven't. But they're important to you, so they're important to me. Please, Nell. Help me get this right!"

"Relax!"

"Please, just humor me, okay?" He decided to plow on, distract her with details. "Your dad, he's William, right?"

He watched as her resistance faded. "Yup."

"And where does he work?"

"He's the high school principal."

"And your mom?"

"Ellen. She was the grade school principal until two years ago. Then she retired and works part time in the church office."

For the next twenty minutes, Eric grilled her about her family.

The chart was getting crowded when he asked, "Anything else I need to know?"

"Oh yeah. You can tell the twins apart because Will has the rounder face, and he has a mole on his neck. Chris's face is more square. You'll catch on quick."

"See! I'd hate to mix them up," he whispered urgently.

"Relax! The whole town gets them mixed up, and they're inseparable anyhow. You'll do fine."

"Nell, I'm freaking out, here. Anybody else who almost slipped your mind?"

"Oh! My crazy aunt Ethel: older than my mom."

"And you only thought to mention her now?" Crazy aunt? This is what he needed to be warned about.

"She's the one who makes the Christmas sweaters. I think she's making you one. Brace yourself."

"See? I told you I need this warning!"

"Relax, Beale."

"Nell. I've gotta do this right. These are important people. If your Aunt Ethel is making me a Christmas sweater, she probably went into conniptions when she found out we'd be coming."

"Conniptions? You're the one in conniptions! Relax, Eric!" She tried to cuddle into his chest, but he tore himself from the seat and charged up the aisle to the bathroom.

Once inside, he stared at himself in the mirror, drawing deep chemical-scented breaths. "Crazy, Eric. This is absolutely crazy. If this trip goes badly, you'll lose her. Really badly, she'd find a way to get you fired. What were you thinking, Eric?" He drew some cold water to splash onto his face.

Just as he dried his hands, the door slid open and Nell came in, put a shushing finger to his lip, and then locked the door behind herself. "That's the lock button: you'll want to try it next time." Still with a finger on his lip, she put a kiss on his chest. "You're a sweet, good man, Eric Beale. And you need to believe that. If you get Bobby mixed up with his cousin CJ, or ask them about lacrosse instead of hockey, that's okay! They know you're you. They'll see how happy you've made me by coming along. They'll see that you're kind, and polite, and careful, and smart, and one little slip-up with who's who won't change that: it would just prove you're human.

"Eric, they've had outsiders at their Christmas before: it wasn't that long ago that Chris brought Jill home, that Linda brought Rob." Eric's thoughts, only recently settled, flew out of control again. Jill and Rob are now her in-laws. Did she realize what she'd implied? "It won't be long before CJ brings someone, too. We celebrate. We celebrate family; we celebrate friends. We'll celebrate you, too—just the way you are."

A smile formed on Eric's lip, so Nell finally removed her finger. "What? Am I visiting Billy Joel or Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood?"

"Well, at least Mr. Rogers had a sweater."

"Yeah, we'll have to see how that goes: I'm getting more and more worried about the cold, too." He paused. "Hey Nell, would you use your finger again to quiet me for a second?"

"Okay, umm, why?" She did.

"So I can do this." He put a kiss on it, then spoke around her finger. "I've gotten several kisses from you, but only recently started returning them. I'd like to kiss you here," on her finger, "and here," her knuckle, "and here," the back of her hand, "and here," her forehead. She purred. "And here," he kissed her left cheek, "and here," her right cheek, "and…"

Silence. Nell must have grown tired of his desultory path to her lips, because she planted them onto his with all the energy the little three-by-five bathroom could contain.

Minutes passed as the kiss went on for miles and miles. Finally, the smells overwhelmed their enthusiasm, and the kisses ended. "Okay. Now to get back to our seats." Nell stuck her head out the door and looked forward, then around the door to the back. "Looks like the coast is clear."

"I'll stretch my legs. I'll use both galleys to do a loop and meet you at our seats."

"'Kay. See you back there." She rubbed his cheek with her thumb.

With all the nonchalance of an amateur pickpocket, Eric made a quick tour of the cabin, and got back to his seat without problems. He'd found a blanket in his perambulations, and had just draped it across Nell and himself when the stewardess tapped his shoulder. "Some sparkling wine for you two, compliments of the woman in 33C." Surprised, Eric looked over his shoulder, and helped Nell see their benefactor. When the woman looked up from her book they nodded their thanks to her.

After a minute, Nell furrowed her brow in puzzlement as she rubbed her cocktail napkin. She turned it over, and they saw handwriting on the other side.

Welcome to the Mile-High Club!

Pan Am, 1984