Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS:LA or its characters… I also don't own any of the Die Hard films or their characters (but if I did, number five would've been way better!)… Also, locations and companies are entirely fictional, despite the back drop of "NYC"...
Author's Note: What to say about this fic…? What is there to say? I love the character of Nell Jones from NCIS: LA but think she is vastly underutilized/wasted in that show (bar a few good moments and an overall intriguing personality). I loved the concept of A Good Day to Die Hard (John McClane reuniting with his estranged and equally badass son) but sadly admit it was poorly done (read 'poorly written'). And what is the point of fan fiction but to provide closure/fill/satisfaction/balm for what one feels the canon lacks… Or to play with characters one loves… So I give you this strangely birthed crossover.
WARNING: This fic will likely contain… Violence (haven't decided on degree of graphic-ness yet), Language (not profuse but I'm not censoring myself), and possibly other mature subject matter.
TIMEFRAME (Potential spoilers): Post-A Good Day to Die Hard and Post-Season Four of NCIS: LA (shouldn't deal directly with any specifics of said season or cliffy, but I'm current on the series and while I'm not placing this fic in or between any particular episode(s), I may inadvertently reference events contained in any of the canon).
Enjoy!
Chapter 1: In which Nell Jones unwinds, and then plays the Good Samaritan...
NCIS Intelligence Analyst Nell Jones flopped onto the soft mattress with a sigh and began to sink into the fluffy comforter. It had been a long day. Say what you might about field agents, but at least they didn't contradict her methods at every turn. They trusted that she knew how to do her job, just as she trusted them to do theirs. It had only been one (oh-so-very) long day, but she missed her team back in Los Angeles.
Her partner Eric was just as technologically savvy as herself, but he never second-guessed her skills. They worked as a team. A concept these Homeland tech geeks definitely required some education on. She tried to let go of the frustration and anger. She would never make it through the rest of the week if she dwelled, stewed and stressed until she was subconsciously grinding away the enamel on her molars. One day, and she was already regretting agreeing to serve on the Taskforce Against the Funding of Terrorism (they'd been calling it TAFT for shorthand) set up by the Department of Homeland Security.
What the hell were you thinking, Nell?
"Come out to New York, you can take a break, have a few laughs..."
She groaned into the pillow in which she'd buried her face to the point of near-suffocation and decided that a nice bath might just do the trick. If she could get her ass up...
At least they had put her up in a nice hotel (unintentionally, apparently, since they hadn't booked enough rooms in the hotel they usually employed and stuck her in something surprisingly upscale). She stepped into the tub and then settled in, submerged to her chin in almost-too-hot water with ample bubbles (any hotel that provided bubble bath was a class act, in Nell Jones' humble opinion). She closed her eyes and drifted off into a serene bliss.
...
It wasn't in Nell's nature to remain downcast for long, so in the morning she woke with her usual buoyancy, threw back the comforter and jumped out of bed in nothing but her camisole and panties. She bounced over to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes, admiring the Manhattan cityscape, the skyscrapers reflecting back the blue sky, the older buildings an interesting architectural lace upon the landscape. The sun pouring through the glass was warm on her bare thighs and the exposed slice of midriff between the hem of her shirt and the top of her panties. It was gorgeous out. Today was going to be great.
She would not let it be otherwise.
Nell would never be called vain. At least, she very much hoped not. But she did do a quick check in the mirror before she left her room. She'd rather believe it was prudence that made her do so. Just a last check to make sure nothing unseemly was showing.
She'd chosen a bright yellow sundress.
It was a beautiful, sunny day outside and she would carry it with her into the stark, soul-crushing grey interior of the federal building where the TAFT project was based. (Another reason she already missed the Office of Special Projects, housed in its unique, large yet somehow cozy and comfortable old mission.) The problem was that the soft cotton fabric of the dress was a little thin. But thankfully, not thin enough to show the texture of her scandalously (at least to her 'cotton briefs and plain underwire bra' upbringing) lace covered set of newly acquired underwear. She hadn't been going to pack them, but for some reason she had, and was glad for it. It was probably quite silly and seemed counterintuitive, but they made her feel confident -rather than exposed- for their sensuality. And they fit her amazingly well. The boy-short cut hugged her hips and bottom flatteringly but didn't ride up (miracle!). And the bra was a feat. You'd think it wouldn't be such a problem, but apparently not many companies made a bra to fit a petite and only moderately busty woman. Whether or not they were right, lingerie producers seemed to assume that all small woman were either flat-chested or had boob jobs and were unnaturally endowed. She was frustratingly (as far bras were concerned) in the middle ground. So when she'd found this amazing-fitting bra, she'd snatched up one in every color. This set was pale teal. And surprisingly, it didn't show through her yellow dress.
Despite an entirely decent looking reflection in the full length mirror, Nell bit her lip thoughtfully. How would her temporary coworkers react? She looked like a goddamn ray of sunshine. Oh, to hell with them. She felt like a ray of sunshine. And she liked it. If those bast-people wanted to be miserable, they were welcome to it. She took a deep breath, and pushed all of her anxiety out. At least she had a couple more hours free of them, and thought to seek out breakfast somewhere with cultural flavor (Los Angeles could be shiny, but was rather monotonous and bland underneath the glamour).
Her plans, however, were thwarted when she decided to check in at the front desk. Eric, Kensi, Deeks, or her sisters would simply text her. But Hetty... She wouldn't put it past the old spy to call the front desk and leave her a note, or have a secret message slipped in some innocuous package of chocolates or the like (challenging her to hone her deciphering skills for a simple 'Hello, dear. Hope you're settling in satisfactorily.'). And then there was her mom, who could track her down anywhere, even though Nell herself hadn't even known where she'd be staying until late last night (having gone directly to the federal building off from her delayed flight to sit through a painfully long and detailed briefing). There could be cookies, magically made and forwarded, waiting for her. Neither of the contingencies she thought possible (although improbable) proved to be the case, however.
When asked whether there were any messages for Room 2308, the young woman behind the desk with a smile as polished as the brass nametag affixed to her chic black blazer, produced a fat envelope. Nell raised a curious eyebrow out of pure habit. She encountered many things to intrigue her intellectual curiosity on a daily basis, but her imagination hadn't quite become inured to it. She accepted the parcel, and finding a cozy lobby chair to seat herself in, took to examining it. A plain manila envelope, sealed. The only markings on it beside the manufacturer's information was in thick black marker. And it wasn't her name. Just 'Room 2308' printed neatly in an unfamiliar hand. She delicately probed the envelope. If she had learned anything from working for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service it was that one could never be too careful (especially after hearing that urban legend about one of their agents being poisoned with pneumonic plague, which really couldn't possibly be true, but...) It was relatively flat, containing only papers maybe? And a little rectangle of cardboard, like a driver's license or credit card? Likely nothing dangerous, anyway.
She carefully opened the flap and peeked inside. No mysterious powders or obvious booby traps. Still, she'd apparently been around professional investigators too much, because rather than reach into the package, she brushed aside a couple of magazines (that catered to a lifestyle she could never in a million years fathom) on the low table in front of her and dumped the contents out. Just as she guessed, a rectangular card, identification of some sort and a folded piece of paper. She picked up the card, holding it by the edges (too many forensics lectures).
It was a security pass with a small, faded, blurred photo and its text proclaimed it to belong to a 'Mr. Charles Wright, Chief Researcher, Paragon Corp, 1313 Mierloi Plaza.'
She unfolded the note and read its brief but cordial message. Apparently, some Good Samaritan had found Mr. Wright's wallet, and amongst its contents was a hotel key to Nell's room (what was that about?!). They wanted to make sure that the wallet did indeed belong to the occupant before handing over everything anyone needed to perform identity theft, so they only left the note and the ID (since Mr. Wright would probably need it to get to work, where they would meet him at 8am to return the rest of his lost possessions, since it was nearby where they themselves worked).
Damn.
She should just leave it for the hotel to take care of... That's what most people would do... Even knowing that the hotel wouldn't make any active attempt, just toss it into a Lost and Found in the off-chance the owner came looking for it. And, thanks to whatever misunderstanding that had the note and card in her hands, Mr. Wright would never know anyone wanted to return his recovered wallet.
Besides, something ingrained into the very bones of her rural Michigan self wouldn't let her leave a person in such an inconvenient position. She sighed, and pulled out her tablet PC.
Maybe she should try the brass nametag woman, practice her field agent skills. But when it came down to it, she wasn't Callen or Sam Hanna, Deeks or Kensi Blye. She was Nell Jones. And she'd like to think she hacked the hotel's system faster than any of the silver-tongued agents could have coaxed the information out of a jaded hotel employee.
Apparently, Mr. Wright had checked out and canceled the remainder of his reservation (for several weeks) at the hotel. Her room had been his up until yesterday afternoon. Odd but not unheard of. There was a note added in that he'd only returned the one key, having lost the other (along with his wallet, perhaps?) and they'd recoded the locks. So at least some random stranger couldn't sneak into her room in the middle of the night. This hotel just kept getting classier and classier... Although, it was a bit reassuring to know that expensive places could be just as shoddily run as the places she could actually afford herself, lending her the conclusion that whenever she chose to treat herself to some 'low-end' respite from work it was just as good (if not better than) the costly vacation crap.
She pulled his phone number and used it. Mr. Wright sounded like a nice enough man. At least, he didn't sound serial killer-ish. But then, was there even a tone of voice that could intimate the speaker kept dead bodies in the basement or the trunk of the car? Never-the-less, Nell informed him that not only were the keepers of his wallet intending to meet him outside his place of work in just under an thirty minutes, but she would show up as well to return his work ID (which also apparently granted him access to all of the building and thank god she had it because it would take about three days of begging and filling out paperwork to get another).
Not knowing how long it might take to get to Mierloi Plaza, Nell did a quick search, hurriedly shut down her tablet and tucked it into her messenger bag, along with the note and ID in their original envelope, and sprinted through the lobby doors to hail a cab. It would take almost the entire time for her to get across town, apparently, by cab… at this hour anyway (And she wasn't feeling up to navigating the subway system. Or going underground, for that matter, when a tiresome day of synthetic lighting and mind-numbingly dull interior decorating was stretching out before her).
And if Mr. Wright turned out to be a serial killer, it might spice up her day a little. Normally a troubling thought, but she was feeling confident. Because of the lacy teal panties. Oh, yeah. And the Glock she was carrying on her person.
...
Nell Jones arrived to Mierloi Plaza as punctual as she ever was. It was a complex of buildings with an extremely tiny and overly landscaped courtyard. It was nice enough for sporting less than one hundred square feet of grass, a handful of trees and much more concrete than either greenery combined. Also seemingly nice enough was Mr. Wright, who turned out not to be the serial killer he potentially was to her imagination's more ghastly indulgence. Then again, perhaps he could've been. For she only saw him briefly, putting the faded face from the ID into slightly sharper detail, as she found him sitting on the edge of a cement fountain. She never had the opportunity to say a word to the man, or get very close at all, before someone began shouting fervently, coarsely and with ample profanity, causing her to turn away from the fountain to see a man running towards her, frenetically waving his arms as he shouted. And then something hit her back with enough force to throw her off her feet and turn her world black.
A/N: Intrigued? I hope so, because I'm quite enjoying this one.
