"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." -Robert Frost
July 10, 2004
Washinton D.C.
Helena shifted uncomfortably in the upholstered seat, her eyes roaming over the purple carpeting and shabby-chic decor. She felt as immensely out of place among the bustling stylists and glamorous patrons of the salon as she always had at her mother's high-society gatherings in Manhattan. Worse, she felt exposed. Her cursory search for a seat with its back to a corner had been fruitless, and the waiting area was not in sight of the door.
Hypervigilance is a bitch.
On top of her nerves, there was a profound and crushing boredom. After a full two months of excruciating medical leave, she had finally been cleared to return to the CIA as a data analyst. Even now, however, she detected a distinct decrease in the urgency of the cases to which she was assigned. These days, her work comprised strictly background research. When she had confronted her supervisor, she had merely given her a sympathetic smile and a figurative pat on the head.
"Give yourself some time to heal, Helena. You'll be back in the saddle in no time."
Helena had tried to point out that the courteous thing to do for a traumatized agent would be to flood her with as much urgent work as possible. A little help in avoiding my issues. That's all I ask.
In the absence of engaging work, she had thrown herself into the task of putting Samson's affairs in order. Over the course of their three-year-marriage, Sam had done a thorough job of turning their studio apartment into a cozy domestic nest. It had always caused Helena a great deal of anxiety to see the overflowing bookshelf, the thoroughly stocked kitchen, the carefully-chosen furniture, and the expensively-framed original artwork.
"What if we have to flee the country, Sam? We'll need a damn cargo ship."
He had always laughed at her for that.
Not so funny now that you've up and left me with all this crap, is it?
Footsteps alerted her to an approaching presence and she jerked her eyes up from the magazine at which she had been staring blankly for the last ten minutes. She examined the lovely blonde who sat across from her, checking automatically for hidden weapons; none on her body, though she carried a rather large purse.
Remember, it's only paranoia if they're not actually out to get you.
The woman noticed her appraising glance, because she smiled and nodded at Helena, who returned the gesture automatically.
"Anything useful?" asked the blonde, gesturing to the magazine.
Realizing that she had no idea what she was supposed to be reading, Helena looked down at the article in from of her.
"6 Ways to Make any Man Worship You."
Awesome.
"Nothing that would save lives in a hostage situation," she sighed. "No signs that it's peer-reviewed or even empirically verified either."
"Well, I don't know much about hostage situations, but I can't imagine that you have any romantic troubles, sweetie," said the woman kindly.
Helena snorted, drawing a chuckle from her companion.
"Your imagination fails you, then."
"I'm Haley," said the woman, rising slightly to stretch her hand across the table. "I'm thinking from your reconnaissance when I walked in that you don't exactly work a desk job. FBI?"
Immediately, Helena's guard rose again. She smiled easily at Haley, shaking her hand firmly.
"Not bad. Which division do you work for?"
"Oh, I'm just a realtor. It's just that my husband does the same thing when he meets new people." She raised her left hand to display a slim silver wedding band. "He thinks I don't notice him scanning for threats when we go out to dinner."
"Ah. Yeah, jumpiness is an occupational hazard in the FBI."
"So am I right?"
"Not entirely, but you're on the right track."
"Hmm. Cagey," observed Haley, scrutinizing Helena's face. "In fact, you haven't even told me your name. So. CIA."
Helena grinned.
"My friends call me Lena. And you aren't considering the thousands of security contractors in the D.C. area."
"I'm sticking with my guess."
"It's a good one."
Haley laughed and shook her head.
"I would hate to play poker with you, Lena. That smile of yours is incredibly hard to read."
"Oh yeah, I'm a nightmare. I count cards, too."
Haley began to reply, but a pink-haired young woman interrupted them.
"Helena?" she inquired, glancing between Haley and Helena.
"That's me." Blythe leapt to her feet. "Pleased to meet you," she called over her shoulder as she followed the stylist ("Bethany," her name tag clarified) into a side room.
Bethany lathered and rinsed Helena's enormous quantity of hair without once allowing a moment's silence. Blythe learned without asking that Beth had two younger sisters, an on-and-off boyfriend of five years, and that she was weighing to pros and cons of going blonde.
"It's so much work to pull off platinum without looking trashy, you know? Full face of makeup every day if I don't want to look washed-out. But on the other hand, I'd just love to go for that 1940s femme fatale look."
Helena volunteered some remark about Barbara Stanwyck, but the majority of her thoughts were focused on holding at bay the intense panic she felt as a result of exposing her throat to a stranger in a room full of scissors and blades.
Calm down. This is why you ran a background check on every employee of this salon before booking an appointment.
Her hypervigilance must have been more obvious than she thought if a guileless realtor could identify her as a field agent so quickly.
Beth led her to a chair, rhapsodizing now about Helena's hair.
"Oh sweetie, these curls are to die for. Just look at the color. What do you want me to do with them?"
"Actually, I was hoping that you would relieve me of them," Helena admitted. "I need it out of the way completely."
Beth looked aghast.
"You want to cut it all off? That's a good…" She paused to evaluate the cascade of red hair, which fell well past Blythe's waist, "eighteen inches."
"To be honest, I grew it out for a guy."
Comprehension dawned across Beth's pretty, delicate face.
"Ohhhh. You're in the 'burn everything' phase, huh? You guys must have been together for a while if your hair got this long."
"Only a year. I just… couldn't really be myself with him."
"Babe, I totally know what you mean." That's very unlikely. "So. Are we going full-on pixie cut? Because with that Hepburn neck of yours plus all that gorgeous bone structure, I think we're in business."
"I put myself entirely in your hands," said the nervous spy, smiling as she kept a watchful eye on Beth's hands in the mirror.
She winced as the girl grabbed a pair of scissors, keeping a watchful eye on the blade in the mirror. Turning her back to a weapon proved even more uncomfortable than lying back to have her hair washed.
"Oh, don't worry, babe. You won't miss it," said Beth, misinterpreting Helena's expression at the sight of the scissor. "You wanna donate it, honey?"
Helena partitioned her attention conversing enthusiastically with Beth (on film in general, the merits of various silver-screen starlets-Bethany was especially partial to Lauren Bacall-, and favorite directors), monitoring the stylist's use of sharp implements, and reviewing her to-do list:
Distribute Sam's enormous wardrobe and library
Find a new apartment
Finish ridiculous busywork research assignment
Submit application
Screen my mother's phone calls
Answer my sister's phone calls
Don't think about Arkady Volkoff
In a stroke of inspiration, she interrupted her own analysis of "Sunset Boulevard" to ask:
"Hey Beth, do you have any use for a tremendous number of hardcover books? Most of them are classic sci-fi or 20th century British poetry. I've got a lot to give away."
"Ohhhh I'm a huge sucker for poetry. Are they really up for grabs?"
"Absolutely. I'll be donating it all anyway."
"Really? You seem like the bookish type."
"Is it that obvious that I'm a tremendous geek?"
"Babe, you have strong opinions on both cinematic versions of The Razor's Edge. If you were trying to hide it, I'm not impressed."
"I'll have to rethink my act. And yes, I'm irredeemably bookish, but I prefer to borrow books a few at a time from the library. I've never really seen the point of accumulating them."
"Man, I wish I were that ascetic. My entire apartment has been completely overrun by books and collectible Star Trek figurines. It's awful."
"If it's any comfort, my minimalism is due entirely to deep-seated commitment issues."
"Ah, so is this giveaway part of the same purge as the haircut?"
"Two different guys, actually. The book guy had the opposite problem: he couldn't be himself around me."
Beth grinned at her in the mirror, still snipping and adjusting Helena's drastically reduced mane busily.
"You sure keep busy."
Helena snorted.
"You have no idea."
By the time Helena walked out of the salon, her head felt several pounds lighter. She felt strangely functional just at that moment; she felt like a Real Girl, not a compulsive liar built by the country's foremost organization of puppeteers. Hell, she had given her real address to a near-stranger. Of course, if Bethany had wanted to kill her, she had already been given ample opportunity.
Helena raised a hand to run her fingers through her short, tousled hair and reflected that her next undercover role would be as a hair stylist. The access to people of all sorts, the automatic conversation, and the position in a veritable thoroughfare of information, made it the perfect cover. Alexei Volkoff's barber had proved an excellent resource for Helena in the early days of her mission, especially given his unfortunate tendency to growing pliable under the influence of high-end vodka.
And just like that, Pinocchio returns. For three whole minutes you were thinking about something other than the Volkoff case.
She frowned and began the walk back to her apartment, her eyes constantly scanning the streets and sidewalks.
Arkady had been transferred to a pre-trial facility in Moscow last week, and since then she had heard nothing of his whereabouts. With Alexei's trial due to start in a month's time, the onslaught of depositions, meetings with state prosecutors, and negotiations with the U.S. Marshals had been endless.
If I never see another goddamned lawyer in my life, it'll be too soon.
As she passed the courthouse, her eyes caught on a familiar figure that strode along the sidewalk as purposefully as she did. Her mind took a moment to catch up to her instincts, and she suffered a moment of pure panic before she could identify the man as SSA Aaron Hotchner, whose height and build strongly resembled the lean, loping men that Arkady kept on hand as his enforcers.
She expelled the breath that she had been holding. Contract killers did not, she knew, tend to stride around Washington D.C. in the general vicinity of the Pentagon, but her body did not seem inclined to respond to reason.
He, too, seemed to scan the crowd as he passed through it; his wary manner and ground-eating gait strongly resembled that of a large lone wolf. Helena took advantage of the few seconds before he noticed her to thoroughly enjoy the sight of his slim figure and well-kept suit, letting her eyes wander uninhibited.
As his eyes completed a sweep, they passed over her, then doubled back and widened. She grinned and raised a hand in acknowledgement. As she did so, she noted with annoyance a weak current of self-consciousness in the back of her mind.
What the hell do you care if he likes your haircut, woman?
They were about thirty paces away from one another when he noticed her (enough distance for one to draw a weapon and fire if necessary-the mark of a serviceable surveillance habit), and he hesitated before closing the distance.
"Agent Blythe," he said, shaking her hand and sparing her a small smile. "I barely recognize you without the purple bruise on your cheek."
Helena nodded mournfully, finding that she still enjoyed his musical baritone voice.
"They refuse to let me out of the office to get another one," she replied plaintively. "I'm reduced to picking fights with baristas who make my coffee lukewarm."
"Quite a step down, then."
"Desk work is a really special ring of hell."
He chuckled, but it did not reach the serious expression in his eyes.
"I'm surprised that they've already let you go back to work in any capacity," he remarked. "Shouldn't you still be on leave?"
"Oh god, not you too," she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. "My supervisor believed-correctly, by the way-that the boredom would drive me to far more dangerous, suture-ripping extremes than I could reach at Langley. So she's keeping me busy with doctor-approved activities."
"Speaking of suture-ripping extremes," he said, his expression suddenly… could it be bashful? "I have a proposal for you."
She raised a brow and grinned.
"That's a very promising introduction."
"Well, I was planning to discuss it with you after you had a few more months to recover, but since you're clearly up and kicking already…"
"Fire away. But only metaphorically, if you please."
"No promises. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is that we have an opening at the BAU. We're running an open search to fill the position and several members of the team have remarked that your experience with languages, organized crime, and undercover work could be of use."
Helena stared at him, sincerely surprised.
"You think I should apply for the position?"
"Personally, I think you'd be an enormous pain in the ass," he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.
"Well of course, that's a given."
"But what I call pure bloody-mindedness, Gideon calls grit."
"Tomato tomahto. Are you as much of a hard-ass as Morgan says you are?"
"More."
"Work-life balance?"
"I don't know what that means."
"Blood and gore?"
"All day, every day."
"Huh. Sounds pretty bleak."
"Completely."
"How long do I have to decide whether to apply?"
"The deadline is in a month. I warn you, though, you have a very good chance of getting the job."
"I'll have to think about it. Always good to talk to you, Hotch."
He inclined his head, looking slightly awkward, and turned to leave.
"Oh wait-" she called out, fishing in her backpack for a slim manilla folder. "I have something for you." She held it out to him, watching his face as he took the file and flipped through it.
Finally he raised his eyes to hers, scowling severely down at her.
"This is an application," he said flatly.
"Indeed it is."
"For the BAU."
"Precisely as you say. You're on fire today, Hotch."
"You were already planning to apply."
"Looks that way."
"But you let me do a sale's pitch anyway."
"I was playing hard to get. You're a lousy salesman, by the way."
"We haven't even announced the search yet."
"Now, what kind of spy would I be if I didn't keep track of things like that?"
"A significantly less irritating one."
"I would have asked you about the opening, but I didn't want to trade on our friendship," she explained, enjoying his bemused expression. Most of Aaron Hotchner's expressions involved a furrowed brow, but there were, she had discovered, infinitely many tiny variations on that theme. If one did not take the time to note the slight changes around his mouth and eyes, it would be easy to think him severe and rigid.
That is, if one weren't prone to creepy gawking like you are, Blythe.
"Well," he said with a shrug, "Gideon doesn't have the same qualms, apparently."
"Oh, incidentally, are you looking for any books? I have an enormous collection to dispose of, and it's turning into a first-come first-served sort of deal."
Hotch's scowl broke out into a full-fledged grin.
"Typical spy," he teased. "Can't stand having anything you can't take on the run, right?"
"Exactly."
"I'll ask my wife. She's the uncontested authority on what's allowed in the house."
Somehow, the mention of Hotchner's marital state seemed to jolt them both out of the flow of the conversation. They had been standing quite close together, leaning in slightly, and both of them had unconsciously ceased their constant examination of the surroundings. Now, Helena's eyes resumed their sweeping motion over the waves of passersby, and Hotch cleared his throat.
"You should bring her by!" exclaimed Helena, far too enthusiastically. "She can choose for herself. I think Sam got a few first-editions of Robert Frost, if you're into that sort of thing. You know where I live, I think."
"You're sure you don't mind?"
"It would be doing me a favor. Those books deserve to be loved. There are a few other foragers coming over tomorrow evening around 7:00 if you're worried about imposing-What?"
Hotch had been studying her face with an expression of concern. His scrutiny brought a flush to her cheeks and put her on the defensive.
"Are you talking to someone to deal with the grief?"
"Believe me, I couldn't escape my therapist even in the deepest reaches of Hell. I have tried."
"I mean a friend. Someone that the CIA didn't force on you."
She snorted, absent-mindedly tracing the nicotine patch in the crook of her right elbow with her fingertip.
"I come from a long line of Irish Catholic yuppies. We don't talk. We drink and write run-on sentences.
"Anyway, believe it or not, I don't know a lot of people who can really identify closely with the 23-year-old widow of a closeted gay man."
"Well look. If you do need to talk some time, you know how to reach me. I think I understand 'complicated' pretty well."
They parted ways shortly afterwards, leaving Helena to stride back to the apartment that she had shared with Samson for three years. She had already stripped away almost all of his careful decoration, given away his copious knick-knacks, and sold most of the nonessential furniture. Now, stark and bare apart from stacks of books and paintings, the studio looked less eerily haunted by the specter of their marriage.
Helena stood on the tips of her toes to reach the bottle of gin in the kitchen. Her hollow attempt to make it harder for herself to indulge that particular vice.
She unscrewed the cap and took long swigs, letting the crisp, citrusy alcohol bathe her in heady oblivion.
Or sometimes we just drink.
Author's Note: I'm sorry that this chapter is so transitional and uneventful. It is important to the story, I think, to see the pervasive but understated effects of trauma in Helena's life, which is really the only point of such a pedestrian installment. I do have some nice, twisted cases that I'd like to write soon.