Hey all – I'm feeling under the weather this week, but not too sick to update.
Enjoy!
Season 5, Episode 20: Windfall
"Hey, Hetty?" Callen sidled up to her office while the others gathered near the door. "You want to come with us for drinks to celebrate Kensi being back?"
She smiled. "Not tonight, I think, though please give the others my regrets."
"Okay. See you tomorrow then." But he had only turned away when he paused and turned back. "Oh, and…"
"Yes, Mister Callen?" She raised her eyebrows and waited.
"Is it really okay? I mean, Kensi and Deeks…" He made a gesture with his hands that might, if considered lewdly, have been inappropriate — except that it was almost incomprehensible.
Incomprehensible to anyone but Hetty, that is. She, of course, could see the depth and breadth of a relationship spelled out in Callen's odd motions.
"Do you think it shouldn't be okay for some reason?" she turned it around on him.
Callen blinked, then shook his head. "I think it won't be easy, but they'll figure it out if they really want to."
"Good. I believe so, too."
"Yeah, but," he glanced around for a moment, "Granger's not going to like it."
"The list of things Owen doesn't like could fill every book in a library," Hetty replied. "Don't worry about Owen. Leave him to me."
Callen laughed. "I'd almost feel sorry for the guy...except not."
"Indeed." She waved. "Go on. Enjoy your team, Mister Callen."
"Thanks, Hetty." But his eyes had lost some of their bright sparkle and were more steady and sincere. "Thanks for giving me my team back."
"Thank you, Mister Callen, for giving them something worthy to come back to."
He sketched a terrible salute — it was so awful, Sam began yelling in pure indignation from across the office — and waved as he jogged back towards the others.
Hetty watched them go, smiling. All six of them, three sets of partners, looked right together as they rarely looked alone. It did much to ease her heart to see them at ease again.
Twenty minutes later, her phone dinged.
"I forgot to thank you for the poem."
She chuckled. "You're welcome," she sent back.
"You're a better poet than I am."
"I believe I've heard better poetry from those shooting games Mister Beale plays in Ops that he thinks I don't know about," she returned.
He sent her a face which was simultaneously smiling, winking, and sticking its tongue out. "Does that mean you'd help me write a better poem if I needed it someday?"
"Not a chance, dear."